The Boy Next Door
by jjonahjameson
Summary: movieverse MJ's new role gets Peter into very hot water.
1. Prologue

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I don't own them. That's OK, if you love someone set them free..._

**_A/N:_**_ Sometime after the second movie._

**_The Boy Next Door_**

**_Prologue_**

****

Spider-Man rested, crouched on the concrete corner of the roof, and watched the activity below. There were no streetlights working in this alley and the pathetic bundle rolled into the trash against the side of the building should have been decently hidden by the dark. Instead, flashbulbs were going off, the sporadic light giving the scene a grim, eerie feel. As the photographer finished a set of harsh work lights were plugged in and switched on, removing the last of the soft shadows.

Shaking his head, Spider-Man decided to leave. There was nothing his powers could do to help the dead, and anything he could do to track down the killer could be done better by the police. If he got moving, maybe he could keep some other poor schmuck from ending up in the police morgue. He hesitated as one of the officers pulled out a wallet.

"Jeff L. Sokal." The cop flipped through the wallet's contents. "Photographer, looks like, with Apex Studios. Local."

Jumping to the top of the next building down the road, Spider-Man spun a web to the top of a high rise across the street and swung into the night. He spared a brief thought in salute to his fellow photographer, now deceased, and moved on in his quest to defend the living. It was a minor incident in his patrol.

Nothing memorable.

* * *

"Ms. Watson?"

The red-head sitting outside the office stood up, wobbling slightly on her high heels. Jon Riebeau, the famous director, looked her up and down fast: petite, slender, dyed hair, cute face, ultra-feminine. _Worth interviewing_, he thought, _but barely_. As she walked past the heavy man through the doorway, he noticed that her initial clumsiness had given way to a graceful stride and she went up a point or two in his estimation. Gesturing for her to sit on the couch, Riebeau joined Manny and Chris behind the wide table and picked up his clipboard.

"Acting experience?"

"Most recently, I played 'Cecily' in _The Importance of Being Earnest_, Ivar theater. Before that I..." The director listened absently as she went through a typical list of aspiring-actress qualifications. "...Emma Rose..." No film, no TV. Minus points. He noticed Manny leaning back to get another cup of coffee, but Chris seemed to have perked up. She scribbled something at the bottom of her notes and turned it so that Riebeau could read it.

_Red-heads hot for FBI, plays off whole X-files thing,_ her note read. Eew. Old news, nothing deader than last year's fad. He rolled his eyes at her and groaned. The actress sitting in front faltered for a moment, then lifted her chin and went on, upping the volume and slowing down. _Ha! A little grit, a little poise? We're not deaf, honey._

"Didya look over the scene?" Manny, the scriptwriter, sounded as bored as Riebeau felt. How many people had they interviewed today? The project details weren't being released until the PR was in place, but all the studio had to do was put out a call for a new Riebeau film and it got swamped with actors. Riebeau's films were blockbusters, and everyone wanted to be part of the next one. The director narrowed his eyes as he watched the actress take a stance, a deep breath, and begin to read the part.

"I've got twenty hostages to think of," she declared firmly. "I'm not playing Russian roulette with innocent lives." _Oh yeah, plus points, honey._ He folded his arms and leaned back, actually listening for the first time. Good delivery, stronger presence than the girl's sweet face had led him to expect.

"My job is to get those people out alive, and I'll do whatever it takes to get the job done." She went on with the clichéd monologue. Mentally, he ticked her off for a call-back, then closed his eyes and stopped paying attention. The blond earlier had a better look for the part.

"Yes, thank you, Ms. Watson," Chris cut her off. "We'll call you." Watson smiled and set the reading on the table while Manny casually flipped her résumé around and glanced at it.

"Thank you for your—"

"Hey!" Riebeau jumped, startled, when Manny interrupted the girl mid-sentence. He was sitting up straight and peering from the résumé photo to the actress in front of him. "Mary Jane Watson? You're Mary Jane Watson?"

"Ye-es," she said. The director was wondering what put the bug up Manny's butt. Mary Jane Watson? Didn't ring any bells.

"You're the girl Spider-Man rescued at the Unity Fair, couple of years back, right?" Son-of-a—Riebeau could feel the grin stretch across his wide face. _Sometimes you luck out, sometimes you just luck out._ Her reading had been OK, she wasn't a total dead-head. What a gimmick.

"I," Watson was looking blank. "Well, yes, that—it was awhile back." She smiled again, this time showing a dimple in her cheek. _Oh yeah, she'd do fine._

Chris was practically drooling. "Ms. Watson, I wonder if you'd mind reading over the script and coming back at ten tomorrow to do a more, um, in-depth audition with some of the other potential cast members," she said brightly. Riebeau snorted. He couldn't stand middle-aged women being perky. Chris drove him nuts.

It was about time someone remembered the practicalities. Riebeau leaned forward and glared. "Please note, Ms. Watson, that the script is covered by the confidentiality agreement you signed before auditioning. You are not to share the script with anyone, period. It is not to be discussed with your boyfriend or your therapist and not to be copied, under threat of law. Your copy is the property of Apex Studios and will be returned immediately upon request." The director had had a lot of practice using his bulk and loud, clear voice to intimidate people. Most actors were scared to death of him. It was rumored that he'd thrown a multi-million dollar star off one of his sets rather than put up with so-called artistic temperament.

"Certainly," the red-head lifted one eyebrow, not looking particularly intimidated, and accepted the book. Riebeau didn't figure the promise meant much—he was sure she'd say anything for a chance at being in his film. The girl flipped the cover open and looked down at the title page. All of a sudden, she was laughing.

Riebeau blinked in surprise and looked over at Manny. He sure didn't see anything funny about his script, and the little red-head was getting a frown from him. Chris looked confused. Watson was trying to stifle the giggles and finally managed to suck in some air and straighten her face out. "Thank you, I'd be delighted to return tomorrow. Ten o'clock?"

"Yes," Chris wasn't sure how to react. "Do you...you are interested in the project?" Stupid question to ask a hungry wanna-be. She'd be insane to turn this down. Maybe she was insane, laughing like that. Riebeau hated not getting the joke. The way she was grinning now, dimple and all, there was a joke here.

"I'm very interested," Watson stated firmly enough, although you could hear the suppressed laughter. "I'd consider it an honor to be in the new _Spider-Man_ movie."

* * *

Peter stared at his girlfriend. MJ was sitting on her kitchen table, swinging her legs back and forth and grinning impishly at him.

"What?" He couldn't have heard right.

"I'm—auditioning—for—a—movie—about—Spider—Man," MJ said slowly and carefully, and then doubled over laughing. "Oh, man, the look on your face!" she gasped. She was holding her sides, tears running down her face as she tried to hiccough to a stop.

He felt around for a chair and slid limply into it. "You're kidding."

MJ snorted. "Nope."

"What's it about?"

"Uh—you, maybe?" MJ was still snorting and choking on her laughter.

"No, I mean—what about me? How can they make a movie, what, what," Peter was stuttering now, "who knows anything about me?"

Mary Jane rolled her eyes. "I haven't read the script yet."

"You've got the script?"

"Yes, and I'm not supposed to show it to anyone or let you read it." She lifted her chin and pressed her lips together, glaring sternly at Peter. "I'm not even supposed to've told you about it at all." The stern look dissolved into giggles.

"MJ, you've got to let me...so wait a second, what's your role? Who are you going to be if you get it?"

"An FBI agent, apparently." Peter coughed. "What? What's funny about that?"

Peter tilted his chair back and smirked at the floor. "It's just...well, you don't look, um, all that—you know, dangerous."

"Neither do you, tiger," MJ snapped. She straightened and flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Come on, don't you think I can pull off tough?"

Her boyfriend gave her a long, slow look that was both melancholy and warm. "I've seen you face up to maniacs, MJ. You are tough." Mary Jane looked down, wishing she hadn't brought up a sore subject. Then she jerked back up to face Peter as he went on teasingly, "I just don't know if you can _act_ tough."

"Keep it up, Pete, see if I let you read that script." Peter chuckled and hopped off the chair to lean a hand on either side of her. He lowered his head to hers and kissed her. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him even closer. For the moment, the movie was forgotten.

* * *

Manny walked around and around the office, waving his arms and talking in that irritating squeak he called a voice. _Maybe if he wasn't so hyper all the time he wouldn't look like a bunch of animated sticks._ Riebeau brushed crumbs off his generously sloping front and reached for another doughnut.

"I've talked to dozens of eye-witnesses, it's not like she'll have anything new to add, but the authenticity of it! And the publicity, it'll help play up the whole 'true-story' thing, we can put an interview with her up on the net while we're promoting the film," Manny rambled on. "I mean, what great publicity!"

_Ya think? _Maybe the ability to state the obvious is what made Manny such a great writer. Movie-goers seem to love rehashing over what they already knew. Of course, he did his homework too. It was amazing, all the information the scriptwriter had gathered on Spider-Man. He'd even gotten copies of the FBI profile.

"I'll have to re-write the whole 'Unity Fair' scene, make sure Agent Amberly's got at least a cameo in it," Manny went on. Riebeau ignored him and went on munching. Anything Manny did was fine with him, as long as it didn't mess up the pace. The director wanted this movie to be fast-moving, non-stop motion, action and emotion like a punch in the face. So far, the storyboards looked promising, and the CGI people seemed to think it could be done.

"I like her look, Manuel, she'll be a great Amberly," Riebeau had been thinking about it all day. "She did OK with the reading, but she's got a real fragile air about her. It'll be good. We'll play up her vulnerability, her ordinary humanity. It'll be a total contrast to the Spider-Man." Yawning widely, he wiggled his feet and looked wearily at Manny. The skinny writer looked ready to jitter around all night, caught up in his creative possibilities. "Maybe you could go home, take a look at the script—I'm thinking about using the whole relationship between Amberly and Goodman to get down into her character, see if you can work with that."

"Yeah? I don't know, I don't see what you mean—"

"So go look." Riebeau heaved himself to his feet and herded Manny to the door. "Good night, good night, go on with you." Pretty much shoving Manny out, he walked slowly toward his bedroom. What a day. Yeah, the Watson girl was going to work. She had that little-girl look, but she showed some backbone. Nice combination, he could work with it.

That laugh still bugged him. He paused with a mouth full of toothpaste and grimaced at the mirror. What'd she find so funny about Spider-Man? Spitting into the sink, he filed it in the back of his mind for later investigation. He would turn her inside-out, find out if she could act. He would make her a star, whether she could act or not. All you had to do was shake out all the little secrets, find the right buttons to push to get the action you wanted on screen. Riebeau thought he was good at that.

* * *

By the time the morning editions came out, Sokal's next-of-kin had been notified and the papers had the go-ahead to print the story. It wasn't much, just a paragraph in the back pages of most of them, recording the passage from man to statistic. The _Daily Bugle_ didn't even bother to print it.

No one at Apex Studios read the paper. After Sokal's boss called to find out why he wasn't at work and reached the widow, people started gossiping, fascinated by actually knowing a murder victim. And of course, they started looking for a replacement photographer.

* * *


	2. Chapter One

**_Chapter One_**

Mary Jane turned, saw the Green Goblin advancing toward her, and screamed. The Goblin chuckled menacingly, the effect ruined by his quick glance at the script. "Ah—right. Drop your weapon, Agent Amberly. Resistance is futile!"

"Cut, OK, hang on there, Jim—"

"Tim—"

"Sorry. Look, we need you to reach your mark—here—by the time you say the last word."

"Won't part of my face be blocked?"

"You're going to be wearing a mask, Tim." Jon Riebeau, the director, was amazingly patient. He had to be. They were running out of actors willing to take this part. "So you've got to make your body language menacing. You want to kill this woman! You're confident, scary!"

While Riebeau coached Tim, MJ leaned against a nearby car and opened her script. They had a couple of weeks to work on the first scenes to be filmed while the set designers finished up, then a short break, then the next few scenes. It was bizarrely unlike acting in a play, where you had a chance to learn your character and get into her skin as you followed her through the plot. Here, none of the action was in order, leaving Mary Jane uncertain what the movie would be like when it was all put together. Except for one thing—she knew Peter would hate it.

"Resistance is futile!" growled Tim.

_Corny. Well, they got the Green Goblin's character down, except cheesy lines are a lot scarier coming from a murderer,_ MJ thought wryly. Peter had been worried about whether re-living even a distorted version of those terrifying events almost three years ago might be hard for MJ to take. She still had nightmares occasionally about that night on the bridge. As it turned out, movies in progress weren't remotely realistic. Tim, wearing a T-Shirt advertising some band called _Dingoes Ate My Baby_ and ripped jeans, was standing on the street-like platform of a half-built set that would eventually look something like Times Square. A crane suspended a plywood balcony overhead and staff hurried around pushing fake walls and huge bluescreens into place. Hardly the stuff of nightmares.

"MJ!" Riebeau yelled at top volume. At first, Riebeau's constant shouting had made her nervous, but eventually Mary Jane got comfortable with the director's bombastic style and stopped jumping every time he called her name. Now, she grabbed her water bottle and took a long drink before heading over. If she was going to be screaming and running for the next couple of hours, she didn't want her throat to get dry.

Just as she reached the edge of the platform, a loud crack echoed through the sound stage. The crane, it's arm reaching into the shadows of the high ceiling, shuddered as its cable inexplicably snapped. The broken strand slid around the pulley with a whining squeal and the plywood balcony dropped like a rock. Sharp splinters went flying everywhere. Suddenly, stage hands were calling out and running to where Tim was lying motionless under boards painted to look like granite.

"Chris, call an ambulance," Riebeau snapped at the producer. He'd already reached Tim and was gingerly trying to clear away the debris.

"It's the Goblin," Peggy whispered. MJ turned to see her make-up artist standing beside her, a look of terror on her spotty face. "He's cursed us, the whole movie is cursed."

"Don't be silly," MJ snorted. "It's just an accident. Look, Tim's getting up—he's going to be OK." Riebeau helped Tim to his feet and helped him hobble toward the dressing rooms.

"Yeah," Peggy said, eyebrows arched. "It's just _another_ accident."

* * *

Peter sat on the edge of Betty's desk, fiddling with the settings on his camera. Betty was on the phone, her voice getting louder every minute. 

"Look, I'm at work—no, look, we can fight about this lat—would you just drop it? Fine. Fine, whatever." Slamming the receiver into its cradle, Betty closed her eyes and dropped her head into her fists.

"You okay?"

"Do you ever get into stupid fights with your girlfriend?" Betty asked, not raising her head.

"Any fight with my girlfriend is a stupid fight," Peter said, aware that a goofy smile had split his face at the thought of MJ.

"You're just too nice to be real, you know that?" Betty lifted her head, her eyes suspiciously wet, and sounded determined to be cheerful. "You've got to have an evil side. What's the dark secret, you a serial killer? Closet Brittany Spears fan? Never put the toilet seat down?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Peter mumbled at his camera. He was uncomfortable with the whole topic, and not only because his night job came immediately to mind. He couldn't help feeling that he wasn't being entirely honest, letting Betty think that he didn't ever fight with MJ.

_Mary Jane was carefully not looking at him as he closed the script book. He stared at the cover, taking a deep breath._

_"It's awful, isn't it." MJ said in a small voice, picking at the sofa cover._

_"It's...it makes me look..." Peter stuttered, unable to put it into words._

_"It makes you look like a monster. It has you working with the Green Goblin to terrorize the city and shows you as—like, some inhuman thing." MJ was huddled miserably on the couch, and Peter reached out to hug her impulsively._

_"I'm sorry. I know you really wanted to do this," Peter said softly as they pulled apart, wishing she wasn't so hurt._

_"What do you mean?" MJ had looked at him then, puzzled and already a little angry._

_"You—well, you're not going to do this, are you?"_

_"Peter—this could be big for me, really big. This isn't some budget flick, this is a Riebeau production—I can't, you can't be serious." She'd stood up, mouth open in shock._

_He'd taken a deep breath, forced himself to smile. "Then you stay with it. I didn't realize—I didn't think. I'm sorry."_

That had been it, mostly. But the movie had stayed just under the surface between them. Peter tried hard to hide his nagging wish that MJ would refuse to be a part of it, and MJ was just a little too bright and cheery whenever the topic came up. Even now Mary Jane was hesitant to talk about her work on the film—and Peter had to admit, he didn't ask. He heard enough, with all the publicity that the studio was putting into the film.

"Hey," Betty said gently, putting her hand on his and tilting her head quizzically. "Did I hit a nerve?"

"Oh, um, hey," Peter blushed, "just wondering how you uncovered my hidden—"

"Parker!" They both jumped at the familiar bellow and Peter slid to his feet, heading for Jameson's office.

* * *

Betty grinned when Peter Parker rolled his eyes as he passed her, before turning back to her work. Like Robbie and most of the _Bugle_'s staff, she knew Peter was dating the girl who had dumped Jameson's darling son at the altar. Everyone had agreed not to tell old JJJ, partly to avoid the inevitable explosion, and partly because everyone was betting on how long it would take Jameson to find out. The office pool had reached over two hundred dollars. Betty, against her better judgment, had picked 'never'. Peter was a sweet guy, and he didn't deserve whatever Jameson was going to throw at him when he tumbled to the situation. She hadn't been able to bet on Peter taking a fall. 

Sighing, Betty started to enter the accounts. Maybe Peter would sell a few photographs today. He really made you root for the underdog.

* * *

There had to be a way to do it. Quentin Beck pulled at his lower lip and stared at the workbench. How did you defeat someone strong enough to hold up a tram with one hand? How did you take him prisoner and hold on to him? 

Gas, of course—knock him out and keep him sedated. Quentin giggled and wiped his nose as he began to work out how much narcotic gas it would take to cause the right effect, density, coverage. Wait a second, how could you be sure that the wind wouldn't blow it clear, out there on the rooftops, before it knocked him out?

Heavy footsteps sounded outside his door and Quentin startled, knocking over his chair and uselessly trying to cover up his equations.

"Beck? You in there?"

"Uh, heh, well—"

Not waiting for an answer, Riebeau threw open the door to Quentin's workshop and scowled at his special effects chief. "Have you got that graphics test done yet?"

_Baby stuff._ Quentin shrugged, not looking Riebeau in the eye. He found the man irritating and demanding, but the pay was good. "Yeah, well, m-mostly." He wiped at his nose.

Riebeau rolled his eyes and strolled over to the workbench and snatched up Quentin's formulas. "What's all this—for the bridge scene?"

"Ah, well, no. I was working out—see, if the feds or someone really wanted to take Spider-Man down, you know gas would be—"

"Oh, please." Quentin fell silent. "Last week it was a working jet pack for the Goblin—" He stared at the floor mulishly while Riebeau lectured him yet again, "—just concentrate on what we need, for Pete's sake, it doesn't actually have to work—" Quentin nodded, hunched with his arms across his chest, "—as long as it looks good on film."

Riebeau paused. "And speaking of looking good on film, if that graphics test isn't ready to show the producers yet—"

"Oh, sure, sure," Quentin stumbled and knocked a pile of plastic body parts off a chair, before managing to maneuver his way to a computer console. "I changed what we were doing—"

"Heaven help us—"

"—and developed this new technique. I'm calling it holographics, take a look—" hitting a last series of commands, Quentin turned away from the keyboard just as set of lenses lit up.

Riebeau's eyes went wide as he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Spider-Man—a three-dimensional, motionless figure who looked as solid as his young creator. Quentin was grinning in triumph, and began explaining his project, the words tumbling out in his enthusiasm.

"Better than just an on-screen graphic, the actors can see and react with it—kind of a virtual actor. I've done film tests, it films just fine, after all film records light and it's made of light, it'll just need a little cleaning up post-production and look—" he took a breath and tapped in a new command, "you can program it to perform different moves." The holographic Spider-Man jerkily climbed up a non-existent wall and then clumsily shot a web, which sprang out of projection range and disappeared.

Riebeau frowned thoughtfully. "It doesn't move right."

Quentin gaped at him. "Oh come on! It's genius, so it still needs some programming work—"

The director cut him off, patting him on the shoulder. "Something to work on, right? Meanwhile, I think the producers are really going to love this. You did good, son."

"Thanks." Quentin had to grit it out. He really hated being called son. After all, he was twenty-two, and the best special effects tech in the business. "I'll get right on that movement problem."

"You do that. And give up wasting your time with all that other stuff—" Riebeau chuckled, "—the action isn't going to be real, you know. It's all movie magic!"

"Sure, Mr. Riebeau, I know," Quentin decided not to mention anything else he'd worked out. Just miniature models of course, but if he found the right materials, they would work. He was sure of it. Why not make it as real as possible? Wasn't that what special effects were all about? Quentin sighed.

"I'll get it done."

Riebeau was halfway out the door before Quentin managed to get up his courage and ask, "Hey, Mr. Riebeau?"

"Yes?"

"What about that guy who got hurt today—the actor?"

"Tim's fine, he just got shook up a little."

"Oh. I mean, if he feels he can't go on with it I'd be glad to stand in—"

Riebeau laughed, and Quentin's words faltered to a stop. "Look son, you're great at special effects but you're no actor. Stick to what you know." He sobered, and finished chuckling with a sigh. "It's getting to be a pain, though. Third accident on set—and then that photographer getting mugged. I've got to find someone to take his place for the leads' publicity shoots." As he walked through the door, Quentin heard him muttering to himself, "Gotta stop this run of bad luck."

Folding his arms across his chest, Quentin pouted.

* * *

The masked man burst out of the window, tumbled to the ground, rose smoothly to his feet and began to run. Sirens announced the arrival of the police, racing up the street behind him. He clutched a pillowcase to his chest, filled with cash and jewelry from the couple he'd just beaten up. They'd never seen his face, the black ski mask covering his features was his protection. All he had to do to get away clean was make it to the alley before the police saw him, hand his haul off to his partner, and pull off the mask. Piece of cake. 

Head down and legs pumping, he ran full tilt into a hard surface. Dazed, he fell back on his rear, stupidly wondering who had built a wall in the middle of the street. He blinked up at what he'd run into and glimpsed a small shape that leaped aside incredibly fast. Before he could gather his wits together, he found himself hoisted by his collar and plastered with something gooey, pillowcase and all, against the wall of an apartment building.

"Hey, Spidey!" The thief craned his neck to see a teenage boy hanging out of a window above him. "Yee-ha! Way to go!" Other windows were opening, people leaning out and cheering all up and down the building. He followed their pointing fingers out across the street and was just in time to see a flash of red disappearing around the corner of a building. Then his vision was filled with a different kind of red flash as cop cars pulled up in front of him.

"Yes!" the teenager hissed. "I don't believe I saw him! Whoa!" He waved his fists in the air, cheering along with his neighbors.

As he was being handcuffed and pushed into a police car sometime later, the last thing the thief heard was the boy saying, "Man, I can't wait for the movie!"

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for the great response on the first part of this! (Skip this bit if A/N's bug you.)_

_hazelle__: Have you posted that? Sounds fun._

_Jodi M., eliant, kaliflower: I ended up agreeing with you and re-wrote the first part—no more 1st person POV. In some ways it worked for me to get the character together, but it just became too distracting._

_Jenn__, Moonjava, and betty: thank you so much for your support, you make me feel good about my writing._

_Starlight1534: Yes—in fact, X-Files stories were the first fanfic I ever read.:)_

_Kirayoshi__: Awww, it's been done? I'll have to read the comics—after I finish writing this!_

_To everyone: thank you so much. I really appreciate the reviews and comments._


	3. Chapter Two

**_Chapter Two_**

"Mr. Riebeau!" Mary Jane shouted and waved, and the director ambled across the studio set toward them. Peter wasn't too sure about this plan of MJ's. Grimacing, he looked down and fumbled with the camera around his neck until MJ grabbed his arm and walked him forward.

"He needs a photographer," she hissed. "Why shouldn't he hire you?"

"I don't want a job just because my girlfriend..." Peter had to stop whispering because Riebeau had arrived.

"MJ! Hon, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Jon. We're a family here." Riebeau patted MJ's arm and cocked an eye at Peter.

"Jon, this is Peter Parker, an excellent photographer. You may have seen his work in _The Daily Bugle_?" Mary Jane flashed a challenging smile and lifted an eyebrow. "Since we're a photographer short, I thought you might not mind if I brought him along."

Riebeau snorted and looked Peter up and down. "Mind? Nope. Of course, I might throw him right back off the set...You ever done PR work?" he added.

"Ah, no," Peter glanced briefly at MJ. "Mostly crime scenes. Most of what I sell are pictures of Spider-Man," he admitted. "I brought along my portfolio..."

Riebeau said something that sounded like "Hrumph" and snatched the folder. He flipped rapidly through the pictures, not too carefully, and tossed the portfolio back to him. "Really don't need artsy junk."

"Mr. Riebeau—" The director held up a hand to cut MJ off.

"I've seen your stuff in the _Bugle_. It's not bad." Riebeau looked out from under his heavy eyebrows down at Peter, who was about two-thirds his size whether you went up or sideways. "Look, we've got to get the publicity shots done, stills for magazines, posters, that kind of thing. Sokal—he's the photographer we lost—he had a schedule, poses, some preliminary junk done. Why don't you get all that, look it over. You think you can do it, we'll talk price."

Mary Jane's smile was real this time. "Thanks, Mr.—OK, Jon, sorry," she laughed.

"Thank you for the chance, Mr. Riebeau, I really appreciate it," Peter added. Riebeau made the "hrumph" sound again and suddenly bellowed at someone all the way across the studio, making both MJ and Peter jump. "Hang on, kid, right back," Riebeau said, and strode off to confront the set designer.

"See?" MJ was practically bouncing on her toes. "And it's not like he's going to be nice to you just for me. Face it, Peter, he could get another actress. He's hiring you because you're good."

"He hasn't hired me yet—"

"He will." Peter looked unconvinced, and MJ moved over to give him a quick peck on the lips. "Relax. Besides, this way you can keep an eye on me and make sure I don't get caught by the curse."

"Curse?" Peter swung his camera around to the side, stuck his portfolio under one arm, and slid his hands around MJ's waist. "What curse?"

MJ chuckled softly, leaned her forehead into his, and closed her eyes. "Oh, Peggy, the make-up girl, is convinced the movie's cursed because there's been a couple of accidents. She thinks the Green Goblin is out to sabotage the movie."

Peter breathed in the scent of her hair. "Norman Osborn is long gone. And, well, it's not like Harry—"

"Let's not talk about Harry," MJ said, pulling back and looking at him with her dimple showing. "It's all silly, it's just the kind of rumor theater people start. The thing is, they've been having a hard time finding someone to play the Goblin. One guy got sick and quit, one guy broke his leg, stuff happens." MJ shrugged and ran a finger up and down the camera strap across his chest. "Just bad luck."

"Right..." he breathed. A few seconds later a loud cough startled them into jumping apart.

"MJ, hon, they need you over at wardrobe. When you're done there, get back in here. Last rehearsal for the Times Square scenes today, we starting shooting tomorrow. Get a move on." MJ gave Peter's hand a squeeze and dashed off. Riebeau grunted and waved Peter to follow him.

"Nice girl," he said.

"The best."

Riebeau looked at Peter out of the corner of his eye. "Manny says she dumped that astronaut, Jameson, at the altar. Not too long ago. She was dating the Osborn heir at one time too, wasn't she?"

"Something like that." Peter wasn't liking the conversation.

Riebeau laughed and slapped Peter on the back. "None of my business, huh? Tell you what, that girl of yours is my business, until this movie's done. She's good, better than I thought she'd be—"

"MJ's not good, she's great."

"So, get used to it, kid. People are going to be talking about her. People are going to want to know all about her, especially her love life. If the publicity department and I get our way, every tabloid in the country will be putting out articles about her every time she sneezes, sneaking around to catch pictures of her in a bikini. She's going to be big time, once this movie hits the box office—or before."

Peter kept his mouth shut and followed Riebeau out of the studio and down a hallway at a fast clip. Mary Jane on billboards all over Manhattan, Mary Jane's face on posters outside the theater—he'd been so proud for her. But he'd never really thought about what this dream of hers to be an actress meant for him. Now, she was starring in this stupid movie that was like one of J. Jonah Jameson's ranting editorials brought to life. Now, this famous Hollywood director was telling him how everyone was going to want to know everything about her. How long could he keep his secret, if MJ attracted that kind of attention? He'd thought about his job putting her in danger. He'd never thought about her job putting _him_ in danger.

Riebeau opened the door of a tiny office filled with too many people. A forty-something woman with frosted hair was typing at a computer. A skinny, twitchy man and an awkward kid about Peter's age were huddled around a table covered with papers, diagrams, and coffee cups. Riebeau squeezed in by the desk, the only space left, and Peter stood uncertainly in the doorway.

"Hey, Chris, where's Jeff Sokal's stuff? For the shoot. This is um," he snapped his fingers.

"Peter Parker."

"Right, Peter, this is Chris, the producer, and over there, that's Manny Alzamora, our scriptwriter," Manny waved, "and Quentin Beck, our special effects wiz kid." Beck didn't bother to look at Peter. "Peter's going to take over photography on the set."

"All that stuff went home with Jeff's wife," Chris said, still intent on the computer. "She just kind of packed everything up."

Riebeau groaned theatrically and hooked his read end over the desk. "He had the schedule, the test shots—"

Chris turned to smile brightly at Peter and indicated the printer, which was smoothly spitting out a page. "That's Jeff's home address. I'll give Susie a call—she's the widow—she'll let you go through Jeff's stuff and get what you need. I put my cell number on it, just holler if you need anything."

Peter picked up the paper, glanced at it, and slid it into his portfolio. "Thank you."

"You can find the place, kid?" Riebeau said. "We need you to get going pronto, we're enough behind as it is."

"Sure, Mr. Riebeau, I'll go right away." Peter gave the office a vague wave goodbye, realized that Riebeau had already forgotten he was there, and left.

Heading out, Peter hunched his shoulders and went back to his gloomy thoughts. Mary Jane had accepted him, mask and all, without protest. She had brightened his whole world, from the moment she stood in his doorway and refused to leave. And he knew it hadn't been easy for her, even in the short time they'd been together. So how could he ask her to give up her dreams for him? It wasn't an option. Still...what if some fan with too much time on his hands started counting up all the times she'd been saved by Spider-Man? How long before some enterprising journalist—

Peter was jolted out of his reverie by a quick buzz of spider-sense prompting him to step aside, just in time to avoid being run into by a man hurrying past. Peter recognized the geeky special effects guy from Riebeau's office, rushing out a doorway at the end of the hall. Not a people person, obviously. Manny Alzamora was coming down the hallway too, but unlike Beck he slowed and nodded at Peter as he came up.

"Hi! Peter, right?"

"Yeah, and you're Mr. Alzamora?" Peter shook hands.

"Just Manny, please. I'm just a writer—we don't get any respect around here." Manny grinned, and Peter smiled weakly in return. So this was the guy who'd written that...that libelous hogwash about Spider-Man. Peter tried to keep his reaction off his face. It was easy to get along with Jameson, in spite of his editorials. He was so annoying in person that everyone wore irritated expressions around him. But Peter couldn't frown at Manny, who was trying to be friendly.

"Oh. Uh, yeah, MJ—you know Mary Jane?—she let me read the script. It's, um, interesting."

"Totally accurate," Manny said, thumping his chest with one hand. "I did all kinds of research, I really got into the story. Jonah Jameson over at the _Daily Bugle_ is a close friend, gave me access to all kinds of unpublished information."

"That explains it," Peter said before he thought.

"Huh?"

"It's just that you've got such a negative view of Spidey. I take pictures of him, you know, and he's always been...helping people, doing good things. Jameson's got a real attitude—"

"Hold on. There's a lot about Spider-Man you don't know, Peter. I mean, Jonah let me see police files, profiling that's been done on him, the works." Peter opened his mouth—there were profiles of him?—but shut it as Manny went on.

"That's great, that you're the Spidey photographer. Jonah never told me your name—he protects his sources—but he mentioned that his photographer was a fan. It's OK, you know? You're young, you still have some faith in heroes. But let me tell you," Manny shook his head and set his hands on his hips, "there's no Santa Claus, and no one's out there fighting bad guys just to make the world a better place. Everyone's got an agenda."

"I think you're wrong," Peter said quietly.

"Well, tell you what. Next time you go taking pictures of him, take me with you." Manny grinned, eyes sparkling, hopping from one foot to another. "What a rush, it'd be great to see Spider-Man in action."

"Oh, ah," Peter shook his head and looked down. "I don't think I can do that, Mr. Alzamora."

"Come on, I wouldn't tell anyone how you meet him. Swear. Maybe you can convince me that Jonah's wrong. You know, it could inspire a scene or too—show another side of the Spider-Man. You think he's a hero—this is your chance to get your side of the story told."

Peter stared helplessly at him for a second, wishing he could say yes. "No, really, it'd be...I just don't think I can. Anyway, I um, can't really tell when he's going to show up."

"Uh-huh. Right." Manny threw up his hands. "Whatever, but if you change your mind, I mean, I'll be around!"

"OK. Thanks." Peter nodded farewell and backed away, heading for the door back into the sound stage.

He wasted some time unsuccessfully searching for MJ before giving up and heading out to Sokal's house. If he wasn't back before she got off work—well, MJ was used to him randomly disappearing. He told himself that she'd be more shocked if he was actually stayed there all day, and scribbled a quick note for her which he gave to a stage hand.

Jeff Sokal had lived in Jackson Heights, not far from Aunt May's old house. Peter rode the bus there, his thoughts running in circles throughout the trip. He stepped off the bus so absorbed in his worries that he didn't notice the commotion a couple of blocks down until a police car drove past him. It pulled up next to another black-and-white in front of a small home with a neatly tended patch of grass in front. A crowd of neighbors was being motioned away from the front steps by an officer already on the scene.

With a sinking heart, Peter realized that the house was on the right side of the street to be the Sokal's house. It must be close to the Sokal's. Really close. He approached slowly, checking the numbers for a block before he gave up on denial and shoved the address back into his portfolio. He went directly up to the officer in the front yard.

"Sir?"

The uniformed officer turned and held up a hand in warning. "Please stay back. This is a crime scene."

"I have an appointment to see Mrs. Sokal, is this her house?"

"Sir, please stay back."

He sighed with exasperation, but the officer disappeared into the house and reappeared before Peter could figure out what to do next. Apparently he'd been given orders to let Peter in, because he gestured him sternly forward saying, "Please step inside."

Peter stepped over the broken glass littering the front step and entered through the open door. The house was old, and so was the furniture. The walls were covered in flowery wallpaper and family pictures, and there was a worn green carpet on the floor. Peter was reminded sharply of the house he'd grown up in.

A young woman was sitting on a couch in the front room, crying. She was pretty, with short, curly brown hair, dark eyes and dusky skin. But she looked exhausted and confused and stared at Peter with hostility. A second cop stood next to her.

"We took down your report, ma'am. Are you sure there's nothing you want to add to the description of your attacker?"

"I told you, I've told you already. He was wearing some kind of weird helmet thing, like an astronaut. He had a purple cape on. I couldn't see his face or anything."

"Like an astronaut," the cop repeated.

"Yes, look, would I make this crap up? He was in the house when I came home, he knocked me down and ran out. I didn't get a good look at him, OK? Can't you just leave me alone?" she shouted, including Peter with another angry glare.

"Um, I'm sorry," he said. "I...Chris from the studio was supposed to call about me picking up your husband's work...ah, this is a bad time, I'll come back."

"Hold on." The cop looked back down at Susie Sokal. "Where is your husband now?"

"Dead," she snapped. "He died last week, you moron. He was mugged and shot and why aren't you out catching his murderer, or the jerk who broke in, or anything other than harassing me and acting like I'm insane?" She burst into noisy sobs, and buried her face in her hands.

The cop turned calmly to Peter. "And you were supposed to pick up Mr. Sokal's work? What kind of work was that?"

"Um, he was a photographer. Um, me too," Peter lifted his camera up as evidence. "For a movie studio."

"The study was trashed," Susie said, raising her head. "There's pictures all over the floor. They've already asked me if anything is missing. I don't know. I don't care. Just get what you came for and go away." Tears were still streaking down her face.

Unhappy and wishing he could be somewhere else, Peter followed the cop to the study. Boxes of photographs had been tossed from the shelves to the floor. Peter looked over the room with an experienced eye; whoever broke in had been interrupted before he could really get started. Nothing had been ripped up or damaged, and only a couple of drawers had been pulled out of the desk. The guy in the purple cape had obviously been looking for something more than cash or a TV.

Spotting the Apex Studios logo on some scattered papers, Peter knelt down and began shoving them into a box, along with nearby photographs and a couple of envelopes of negatives. If he picked up anything he wasn't supposed to have, he could return it later.

Peter picked up the box and let the cop know he was done. Walking back through the front room, he hesitated by the couch, still feeling guilty about intruding at such a bad time.

"Mrs. Sokal? I'm sorry, about your husband. I wish I could help." She didn't look up.

Sighing, Peter walked back out the open door and carried the box toward the bus stop. The cops were already getting ready to leave. Nothing missing, no one really hurt, he knew they'd just file the report and forget it. Maybe make a few jokes about astronaut thieves.

Peter wasn't laughing. He couldn't help thinking about a mysterious curse, a series of accidents, a murder, and now a break-in. He'd stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago.

* * *

_Thanks for all the great reviews. Sorry the update took so longhopefully the next chapter will be coming soon!_


	4. Chapter Three

_A/N: OK, here's the whole chapter, for real this time! Thanks to everyone who has been nudging me to get back to this story and for all the great reviews._

****

**_Chapter Three_**

Quentin Beck paced his workroom. He'd stuffed the glass helmet and purple cape back in with the props without anyone seeing him, his heart still pounding from the narrow escape. He'd panicked when Riebeau brought in that new photographer and told him to go get Sokal's stuff. All he'd needed to do was get a hold of the negatives first, and he'd messed it up. That woman had seen him, what if she managed to describe him?

Rubbing his hands over his head, he stopped and gazed around the workroom with blank eyes. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. No, she couldn't describe him. That's what the cape and helmet had been for, right? He'd planned ahead of time. He was on top of things. He could still do this, all he had to do was make sure Parker didn't get his hands on those pictures. If he did, Beck would take care of it, just like he'd taken care of Sokal.

Quentin walked over to his computer and sat down. All of this was going to be worth it in the end. All of the aggravation, all of the humiliation, all of the problems. He accessed his latest program and pulled up the menu, setting it in motion. He hadn't been sure he should do this, but it was time. He was being wasted in special effects. He belonged in front of the camera, and if it took a little pressure to make it happen, that was fine by him. Hitting enter, he leaned back in his chair. Too late for second thoughts now. Soon, Riebeau would be begging him to step into the role that should have been his from the beginning. He would shine as the Green Goblin, he knew he would. Critics everywhere would hail the discovery of a great new talent. Fame and fortune would be his...he would walk up the red carpet with cameras flashing on all sides, eager reporters asking him questions, admiring fans shoving and fighting for a chance to be near him. Sexy actresses would hang on his arm, smiling into his eyes.

A knock on the door startled him out of his daydream. Quentin slammed his thighs into the desktop as he stood, sprang back, and knocked his chair over. Manny yelled from outside the door, "You OK, Quentin?"

"Yeah, come on in," he muttered.

Manny ambled in, peering around curiously. "So this is the place where the magic happens?" He watched Quentin shrug and mumble something. "Hey, ah—you should, you know—" he mimed wiping his mouth.

The younger man swiped at the drool on his chin, embarrassed. "Thanks. Did you need something?"

"Well, I mean, yes. Basically, I need to know if you can work with me on a script, help me figure out if the effects for some of the scenes I have in mind are practical."

"Wow. You mean Riebeau is already setting up his next project? What's it going to be?"

"That's the big part of the favor, you see. This isn't for Riebeau." Manny righted Quentin's chair and sat in it, leaning his elbows on his knees. "See, Panavision has offered me double the normal rate to come in and fix the script for the _Get Real_ sequel."

Quentin scowled. "Thought you were contracted exclusively with Apex."

"What they don't know won't hurt them, right?" Manny winked at his friend.

"You get caught, Riebeau's going to skin you alive."

"I know. Thing is, I need the money."

"Doesn't everyone?" Quentin grunted. "What's the point of sabotaging everything you've worked for so far—"

A ringing crash interrupted him. Manny and Quentin ran out the door, toward Studio Three where the screams and continuing commotion seemed to originate. Manny's long legs took him into the lead, and he missed the tiny smirk that Quentin couldn't manage to keep off his face.

Both of them missed seeing Chris, standing behind the workshop door with a fresh cigarette in her hand and a look of shock on her face.

* * *

J. Jonah Jameson lit his cigar and puffed smugly, hands on hips as he surveyed the nightclub, lit with spotlights and flashbulbs. Behind him, Joan Jameson struggled out of the limousine and smoothed her electric blue dress back down over her knees. His cigar dribbled ash down the front of his evening clothes but he didn't notice, his attention taken up by the glittering dresses and black tuxedos walking past him. Everyone was here to enjoy the newest hot spot, or more honestly, to see and be seen. There was the CEO of Gorcorp, and there was that supermodel—what's-her-name—hanging all over some grey-haired man—better find out who he is—and there was the mayor.

Oh, and there was Riebeau, the director that Manny was working for. They'd gone to school together, years back, he and old Manny, dreaming of being writers. Jameson swelled a little with pride as he thought of his own prosperous appearance and successful career. Sure, Manny's scripts were popular, but journalism was a real career. Journalists were respected defenders of the First Amendment. It was a noble, dignified calling.

"It's the mayor, Jonah," Joan hissed. She stretched her lips into a smile and yanked him forward.

"Mr. Mayor! Good to see—" The mayor moved out onto the red carpet without a second look at Jameson and his wife. Apparently he was still upset about Jameson's little faux pas a few months back.

"Look at that, see what you did? I can't believe you, how could you completely offend him, you should've known better, what do you publish a newspaper for?" Joan continued to nag him out of the corner of her mouth as they strolled up to the entrance behind the mayor's portly form, but Jameson ignored her. Wife, mistress, it didn't matter if he'd put his foot in it at John's party. The mayor would be dying to be friends again with the power of the press as soon as that article came out tomorrow. Jameson smiled and pulled Joan to a halt so that one of the photographers could snap a good picture. Just as the flash went off, Jameson's face fell comically, the cigar dropping from his lips and tumbling to the pavement.

Riebeau had moved aside to let the mayor in, and now he was turning to enter himself—accompanied by none other than Mary Jane Watson, stunning in a shimmering white sleeveless dress, and a young man. That was bad enough. He wouldn't mind if he never set eyes on her again, after what she'd done to John. But even worse—_even worse_—she was smiling and laughing at something her escort said to her, alight with happiness. That must be him, that was the creep, the reason she'd humiliated the entire Jameson family. After all the money that they'd dumped into that farce of a ceremony, she'd run off to be with some short twerp who looked uncomfortable in dress clothes.

Then the twerp turned, and Jameson saw red. That was Peter Parker. The photographer, _his_ photographer. Peter Parker was stepping into a posh nightclub with Mary Jane Watson. Peter Parker. He had his mouth open before his brain could finish assimilating the information.

"Parker!"

Parker jumped guiltily and turned. Jameson stalked toward him. He didn't even feel Joan pulling at his arm or hear her squeal, "Not here, dear, really, _not here_."

"You! You black-hearted, double-dealing traitor!" He clenched his fists but left them at his side, leaning over Parker and thundering with all his considerable lung power into the boy's face. "I hired you off the streets! Gave you a job! Trusted you, and you repay me like this! Traitor!"

"Mr. Jameson, I don't think you want to do this right now," Parker stuttered, looking around at the avid crowd of gossip paper photographers and VIP's. Jameson's face was purple.

"You! You, you—my son is a hero! He's worth twenty of you! A hero! Not some nobody who can't wait to bite the hand that feeds him! You're fired, Parker! Never step into my office again, do you hear me?"

"Everyone can hear you, Mr. Jameson. Please, let me explain," Parker said, but Jameson wasn't finished.

He turned to MJ. "And you, you—Jezebel, you Delilah, you should be ashamed of yourself!"

"Oh, get an audience, Jonah," MJ snapped. Taking Parker's arm she swept into the club, the men with her following meekly.

Jameson was left staring at the door as it swung closed behind them.

* * *

"Great exit, Mary Jane," Riebeau said as they sat down to dinner. Peter was silent, still red-faced.

"You know, we actually got along while I was seeing John? At least, he yelled just as much, but in a nicer way." MJ grinned and her dimple showed. She was still on an adrenaline high, her eyes sparkling and her chin defiant.

Riebeau looked amused, but Peter had disappeared behind his menu. MJ looked at the black leather cover and her grin faltered. "I'm sorry, Pete. I can't believe he fired you for going out with me."

"Improper cause for termination. Can't you sue and get your job back?" Riebeau said briskly.

Peter lowered the menu and took a deep breath. "Well, no. I'm just free lance, so all he has to do is not buy anymore photos from me." MJ looked down at the table. She was starting to wish that she and Peter hadn't accepted this invitation, no matter how excited she'd been when Riebeau had asked them both to come.

"Hey, don't feel bad, MJ, it's not your fault at all." He reached over and grabbed her hand, smiling to show he meant it, but she thought it looked forced. Peter hated emotional confrontations—well, he wasn't used to them, was he? No matter what he said, May and Ben hadn't been the type to yell. She squeezed his hand reassuringly.

Unfolding his napkin over his paunch, Riebeau snorted. MJ turned to him. "It's not like any paper in town wouldn't buy Spider-Man pictures. I've been telling Peter he could do better for ages."

"Jameson really did buy my first pictures."

"Come on, you don't really think you owe him anything?"

Peter shrugged. "He's not as bad as he sounds, you know. Half the time he's just yelling to see if anyone has the guts to yell back."

MJ's eyes were wide. After what he'd said to them tonight, after all the damage that Jameson had done with his anti-arachnid editorials, Peter was actually defending the jerk? She took a sip of water to keep from saying what was in her head, but promised herself that they would discuss this. Later.

"Started dinner off with some excitement though, eh?" Riebeau chuckled. "Wonder what his reaction will be when tomorrow's columns come out—some of those rags will publish this. 'Editor in Street Fight over Beautiful Young Actress.'" MJ choked. "In fact we might—you know, you kids haven't told me how you got together. How'd you meet?"

Busy blotting off the water that had gone down her chin, Mary Jane couldn't answer right away. With a sheepish glance at his girlfriend, Peter said, "We were next-door neighbors, growing up. Guess I've always been in love with MJ, but she wouldn't give me the time of day in high school."

"Peter!" She swatted his arm.

Riebeau looked at her with calculation in his eyes. "So, you're really, literally, dating the boy next door? We need to work that into an interview, get you to talk about how you ditched the high society astronaut for an ordinary schmoe—"

"That's not—"

Riebeau held up a hand. "No offence meant, hon. It's a draw, people love a sweet little love story like that."

MJ thought Peter's face might be permanently red after tonight. _Great, a movie he hates and now this._ "You know, Jon, I don't think—"

"Jon!"

The group looked around at the high-pitched call and saw Chris winding between the tightly packed tables to reach them. Riebeau looked irritated for a split-second but then closed his mouth with a puzzled expression. All three remained silent and watched her approach, realizing that something had to be wrong. She was wearing a casual pantsuit, completely out of place in the fashionable surroundings, her hair slightly ruffled, her face worried. As she came up to stand beside Riebeau, MJ noticed that her eyes were puffy and slightly wild.

"Jon," she hissed quietly, "you've got to come over to the studio right away, we were trying to get you on your cell—"

"Turned it off," Riebeau grunted. "Hate people who yak in restaurants. What's the deal?"

"Tim's dead."

There was a short, nasty silence, and then MJ asked, "Tim—the stuntman playing the Goblin? My God, how did it happen?"

Chris answered without looking away from Riebeau. "It's murder. He was...God, it was an explosion, the police are all over. I've got a cop car outside waiting to drive us back, they want to see everyone who was on set today." And," Chris twisted her fingers helplessly, "there were witnesses—Jon, it's crazy, you've got to get back, this just isn't real."

"Calm down, Chris. Listen to me, take a breath, get a grip, OK?"

"Jon, it was the Goblin, the real Green Goblin. He was inside the studio, people saw him, he said that anyone who tried to take Tim's place would meet the same fate. And then he just disappeared."

Stunned, Mary Jane turned to stare at Peter. _The Goblin is dead. Norman Osborn is _dead_. This can't be happening._ Peter's face had turned white, and he was sitting with that unnatural stillness that he seemed to achieve when he was upset. Then MJ saw something determined surface in his eyes, and when he spoke she heard Spider-Man in his voice.

"How many people saw him? What did they see, exactly?"

Chris answered the authoritative tone automatically. "A bunch of the stage hands and a couple of techs, they saw him flying that glider thing across the sound stage and heard him speak. He flew past the sets and they lost sight of him." MJ frowned, and exchanged a confused glance with her boyfriend.

"Come on, everyone," Riebeau said, standing and placing a hand on Chris' shoulder. "Let's get to the studio, we'll know everything that's happened soon enough." MJ stood too, wishing Riebeau didn't have such an uneasy expression on his face—it was unnerving to see the confident director at a loss. "Sorry to end the night early, Parker. Chris, can you call a cab for him?"

Before he could protest, Chris repeated, "They want everyone who was there today. Peter was there today."

"Oh. Right." Riebeau shepherded them toward the door. MJ hustled, pulling at Peter's arm, trying to get far enough ahead of Chris and Riebeau to keep them from overhearing.

"Pete? What's going on?"

"I don't know," Peter whispered back. "But there's something really fishy about this whole thing—flying the glider through a closed studio building and just vanishing? It doesn't make sense."

MJ bit her lip and kept her arm wrapped around Peter's as she saw the officer waiting outside to usher them into the front seat of the squad car. Riebeau and Chris squeezed into the back seat. What she'd dismissed that morning as a superstition was becoming a nightmare. Turning, she saw Chris whispering to Riebeau, whose face darkened.

"Better keep it to yourself, for now," MJ heard him whisper back at her, his booming voice carrying in spite of him. Chris didn't look convinced, but fell silent. MJ faced front again and watched the streetlights slide by. For a moment she wondered what that was all about, but then her mind returned to this new disaster.

_Maybe, the real curse is me,_ she thought unhappily. _I always seem to be in the middle of this kind of thing. And if it is the Goblin, is he coming after us again?_ The thought was enough to send a cold shiver down her spine, and she leaned closer into Peter. He hugged her arm gently to his side and she saw all of her worry reflected in his face. Then the car pulled into the Apex parking lot, full of the depressingly familiar official bustle and light of a crime scene.


	5. Chapter Four

_**Disclaimer: **Yes, I disclaim._

_**A/N: **Many, many thanks to those who are still reading._

_**Chapter Four**_

_Spider-Man swung over the wall and dropped in an easy crouch on the pavement. People were running and screaming, but Spider-Man coolly ignored them, focused entirely on the Green Goblin. Jumping easily over the fifteen feet separating him from the yellow-eyed villain, he landed a punch to his chin. The Goblin was thrown for a loop, back-flipping spectacularly through the air. Dr. Connors shook his head sadly and said, "I can't give you an A for that, Peter. You're late again."_

Peter woke up with a start and then groaned. It was nearly noon. The police had questioned them for hours, all together at first, and then shuffled them into one of the offices to wait in case they were needed again. Muttering something about finding a restroom, Peter had snuck into Studio Three. Slipping around the cops guarding the doors, he had scrambled up the wall and gotten a good look at the site of the explosion—and the studio walls. He'd returned quietly to the office a few minutes later, more confused than ever.

Rolling out of bed, he stumbled wearily into the shower. A few minutes later he was rubbing his hair dry, pulling on his costume—which needed washing again, badly—and then his street clothes. No classes today, but he was supposed to be at the studio this afternoon to start on the publicity shots. He'd thought that the movie might shut down for a day or two, given the death of one of its principals, but MJ had laughed at him last night when he mentioned it. _Ever heard of 'the show must go on,' tiger?_

MJ. Peter picked up the phone, hoping to catch her in, but her machine picked up on the second ring. He hung up, disappointed, then noticed the light flashing on his own answering machine.

"Hey, Pete, it's me. Bet you're sleeping through the phone again. I thought I'd give you a heads-up—we're in the paper this morning. You and me and Jameson, we're all _over_ the news this morning, and the news about the explosion isn't even out." MJ's voice sounded a little grim. "Try not to let it get to you, OK? Love you."

_Oh, no. I'm really starting to hate the word publicity, you know that? All I want is a quiet life—a little studying, a little time with MJ, a little bad-guy busting. Sheesh._ He decided running out to get a paper could wait until after breakfast. Then he remembered he didn't have anything left for breakfast, and no money for either breakfast or a paper. He let his head hit the door with a satisfying thud. Then he grabbed his camera bag and coat, and left. _Today just can't get worse._

* * *

Hustling through the crowded hall toward Ribeau's office, Peter had his head down, shuffling envelopes full of negatives and several folders. A faint tingling prompted him to step sideways just in time to avoid Quentin Beck, who was striding in the opposite direction, ignoring everyone in his path. His face was twisted into an angry sneer, and Peter wondered if he'd been fighting with Ribeau. As usual, Beck paid no attention to Peter – until he'd gone a few steps past him, when suddenly he stopped and whirled around.

"Hey, Peter, right?"

"Yeah." Peter wasn't sure what to make of the unexpectedly friendly tone.

"Quentin Beck." The special effects wiz held out his hand and Peter shoved his paperwork to one side and grabbed at it. A folder slid to the floor spilling proofs and papers across the hallway. A woman stepping past planted one high heel down on a glossy black-and-white of Mary Jane and continued without stopping.

"Whoops. Let me give you a hand," said Beck. Dropping to his knees he began scooping up pictures. Peter saw him plant a greasy thumb in the center of a photograph and wished he wouldn't, but he forced a smile and a thank you as Beck handed him the messy pile. "Look, I was about to grab some lunch, you wanna come with?"

Surprised, Peter saw that Beck was serious, giving him an ingratiating and very fake smile. What on earth did he want from Peter? "Oh, um…I was on my way to see Ribeau –"

"Mr. Parker?"

The new voice was hesitant. Peter looked up at a very pretty girl about his own age, with curly dark hair and sad eyes, with a large cardboard box cradled in her arms. She was familiar, but for the moment he couldn't place her. "Uh – hi?"

"I'm sorry, um, if you're busy – it's OK, I can come back, or just leave this…" Her soft words trailed off. Peter stood up too fast and dropped an envelope, but this time Beck didn't leap to help. In fact, he was staring at the girl like he'd never seen one before. Abruptly, Peter remembered who she was.

"No, no, it's fine. You're Mrs. Sokal, right?"

"Oh." She looked embarrassed. "It's Susie. I know, last time I saw you I was really rude."

"Well, I'm Peter, and it's OK, I understand. I was totally in the way." He smiled at her, and then stumbled sideways as Beck shouldered past him and stamped off down the hall. Susie stared after him with her mouth open.

"Did I – did I interrupt something?"

"Naw." Peter squatted down and grabbed the fallen envelope, this time without further mishap. "He's like that all the time."

"Oh." Shifting the box in her arms, Susie said, "I've been cleaning up – going through Jeff's things and getting that mess out of the study, and I found some more stuff that looks like it belongs to Apex."

"Great." Actually, by now Peter had gotten his own schedule together and Jeff Sokal's work wouldn't be much use to him, but he was enthusiastic anyway. Susie looked like she could use a little appreciation and cheer. "Why don't you bring it," he thought furiously "um, over here." MJ wouldn't mind him leaving some stuff in her dressing room for a few hours. They walked together, awkwardly, and Peter tried to think of something else to say. "So, you're – things are going OK? I really am sorry, about your husband, and, well, all the trouble you've had."

Susie shrugged and didn't look at him. "Thank you." She bit her lip, then said in a rush, "I read about you in the papers. You know, about you and that actress, Mary Jane? And how you were next-door neighbors and high school sweethearts and all?"

Peter cringed and felt his face heat. Susie was already going on. "It's just, that's the way Jeff and I were. He lived down the street from me, and he was always so shy – it took forever for him to ask me out. We got married right after graduation. Reading about you and her, it was – I cried, it made me think about Jeff. And you're a photographer too, like he was."

"Huh." Peter looked at her and saw a sweet and very private smile cross her face. "That's, well I guess that's nice. I don't mean, that it made you cry – "

Susie interrupted him with a laugh. "No, don't worry about that. It was nice. It made me think about bringing you this stuff," she added, as Peter tapped gently on MJ's door and opened it. The dressing room was empty and Peter dumped his armful on the couch before taking the box from Susie and setting it in the corner. She twisted her fingers nervously now that she had nothing to hold onto. "Jeff was a good person. I always thought we'd have more time…" she trailed off again.

Uncomfortable, Peter stuck his hands in his pockets. One of these nights, if he wasn't fast enough or smart enough, he might not come back, either. How would MJ take that? Of course, she had to have thought about the possibility. She was getting good at bandaging, she knew how dangerous things could get even without a super villain to liven things up. But here were normal people, Susie and Jeff, and it had still happened to them. Trying not to look at Susie as she pulled herself together, Peter felt guilty even though he knew he couldn't stop every tragedy, every time.

Wiping at her eyes she said, "Sorry. I hate falling apart like that, and it keeps happening. So, anyway. It must be fun, getting to photograph your girlfriend? She's really beautiful…" Susie kept up a stream of cheerful chatter as Peter walked her out through the studio buildings toward the gates, and Peter found her easy to talk to, especially about Mary Jane. Susie peeked into the studios to see the sets, and Peter pointed out the different actors and told her about the parts they were playing. They were in the reception area at the front of the building when his spider-sense went wild.

Spinning around, he half-crouched, eyes darting from one side of the lobby to the other trying to spot the danger. Susie, caught mid-sentence, gaped at him but he couldn't stop to worry about that. The danger was all around, intense, but he could see nothing threatening – then he heard an all-too-familiar manic laugh echo through the room.

A flash of light and a cloud of smoke filled the lobby, and the receptionist behind her polished desk screamed and backed against the wall. A figure in shimmering green armor with huge yellow eyes strode through the smoke, pointing a machine gun straight at Peter and Susie. With another insane laugh, the Green Goblin pulled the trigger.

Too late, Peter leaped sideways and pulled Susie to the ground, bracing himself for the ripping pain of the bullets and astonished, angry that his super-human reflexes hadn't reacted in time. A thundering roar of gunfire filled the room, but after a few confused seconds he realized that nothing had hit him. Cautiously, he raised his head – the Goblin was gone.

He sat bolt upright with surprise and stared wildly around the undamaged room. The receptionist was still screaming. Susie rolled over, dazed, and put one hand to her head. He got to his feet, moving toward the spot where the Goblin had so dramatically appeared and disappeared, when his spider-sense went wild again. He spun back to Susie, who was climbing to her feet, and tackled her down to the floor again just as the Goblin appeared in another flash and bang of white smoke at the front door and raised his weapon. This time he heard the first sharp whistle of lead past them, and he prayed desperately that he'd gotten Susie out of the line of fire. The gunfire stopped, and the Goblin was gone.

Staying low, he rolled away from Susie. She didn't move. Uncertainly, Peter checked the front and back doors and saw no one, but the room was filling with smoke and plaster dust, making it hard to be sure. His spider-sense was still tingling and he knew this wasn't over yet. Crawling along the floor, he got the wall behind him and wished his ears would stop ringing.

Another bang and flash, and the Goblin began firing across the room from a spot to one side of him – close enough for Peter to attack. He flung himself into the air, preparing to kick away the machine gun and simultaneously to land a punch at the weak point of his armor between neck and shoulder. But the Goblin continued to laugh and fire, not even noticing as his shoe passed through the gun and his fist slid past without resistance. Peter fell heavily to the floor, lying half in and half out of the Goblin. Then the image disappeared. Suddenly, gunfire was erupting from the back of the lobby and Peter rolled down and away faster than the bullets that tracked him, flattening himself into the corner.

The Goblin was genuinely gone. His spider-sense confirmed it, and Peter pulled away from the wall and made his way through the smoke to Susie's motionless form. Crouching, he put two fingers against her neck and felt a strong pulse, although her skin was sticky with blood. He stood and moved across the room to the receptionist. A few paces away he stopped and rubbed tiredly at his face. He didn't need to go any closer to see that she was dead. The once elegant room, with its dark-red walls and solid furniture, was a mess of broken glass, plaster, and upholstery stuffing.

Shouts and running footsteps heralded the arrival of a few brave souls coming to investigate. The whole attack couldn't have lasted more than five minutes, he realized. He sat down and waited until a black man with a kind, worried face and a security uniform came up to him.

"Did you call an ambulance? Over there, she's hurt but she's alive. The other woman's dead," Peter told him.

"All right, it's OK. There are people on the way," the guard said, and went over to Susie. The smoke and dust were starting to clear, and someone screamed as they saw what happened to the receptionist. Peter closed his eyes and let other people deal with the situation. _Why do I feel so tired?_ he thought. _It's like since this happened to Peter Parker, and not to Spider-Man, I'm reacting…like Peter Parker would. Or maybe I'm just not used to people trying to kill me when I'm not wearing tights._ He heard sirens, and people were helping him stand and move away, putting a blanket around his shoulders.

Then Mary Jane was there, and everything was all right again. Or as right as it ever got.

* * *

"That's all…it happened so fast." Chris had organized coffee and doughnuts, and Peter sipped at his cup. The officer grunted a bit and shut his notebook.

"You're a very lucky young man," he said, shaking his head, and nodded at MJ. "I'll leave you in good hands, but if you remember anything else, no matter what, you give us a call." Peter agreed and smiled and wished he could tell the cops everything. But he couldn't exactly explain how he knew – in all the confusion and noise – that sometimes the Goblin was actually firing and sometimes he wasn't, or why he'd attacked a villain armed with a machine gun. So he couldn't mention going right through him…as if he'd been a ghost. MJ slipped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed, and Peter turned a genuine smile on her as the cop moved off.

"Hey," she said softly. "Are you really OK?"

"Yeah."

"Facing the Green Goblin, actually seeing him come back – it must've been…" MJ wrinkled her nose and failed to come up with a good word to describe it. "No wonder it shook you up." She swung her legs back and forth, as she sat beside him on the table.

"It wasn't that. MJ," Peter hesitated and glanced over at the cops and studio personnel still milling around the conference room. Lowering his voice, he went on, "there's something really weird about this."

"You mean, a dead guy attacking a movie studio with a machine gun isn't weird enough," MJ said straight-faced.

"Well, that's part of it. The Goblin had guns built into that flyer of his, but he always used pumpkin bombs when he went at people directly. More than that – " he frowned as he tried to picture the Goblin in the lobby " – the armor looked different, I can't put my finger on it, but it wasn't quite the same. He didn't say anything, which isn't like the Goblin used to be – he could never resist bragging. But the weirdest thing was that he wasn't always there." He filled MJ in on all the details he hadn't told the police and her eyes grew wide.

For a few minutes, MJ was quiet, digesting everything Peter had told her, and he drank the rest of his cooling coffee and began picking at the edges of the Styrofoam cup. Finally she spoke.

"So, when you went through him, was he really firing or not?"

"You caught that too, huh?" Peter shook his head. "I'm just not sure. My spider-sense was going the whole time, and I was to one side of him then, so there was no extra warning to dodge or anything. If he was firing live right then, then we've got some kind of murderous ghost at Apex Studios."

She snorted. "I have a hard time believing that." But in spite of her brave words, he saw her shiver and wrap her arms around herself. He put the cup down and hugged her.

"Me too. But if it isn't a ghost, what is it? At least some of the time, it wasn't a solid person."

"And then, why would anyone want to pretend to be the Goblin? And why now, and at the studio? It's got to have something to do with the movie," she said.

"Maybe. Except, there's all the stuff with the Sokals." MJ grunted inquiringly, and Peter explained, "first, Jeff gets mugged and killed, then a costumed guy robs their house, and now Susie Sokal is shot. It can't all be unrelated."

"You got shot at too, remember, and if you weren't who you are, you'd probably be dead. Maybe someone has something against photographers?"

"Then why Tim's murder, and the other attacks on stuntmen – " Peter broke off as Chris approached them. She was smiling brightly and comfortingly, but it was obvious that the studio disasters were taking their toll on her.

"Mary Jane, Hon, why don't you and your sweetie head out. The police said you can, and there's nothing more you can do around here." She patted Peter's shoulder.

"Does anyone know what the schedule tomorrow's going to be?" MJ asked.

"Oh, Hon," Chris' mask dropped, and her face was middle-aged and scared, "I think Jon wants to start the filming at six as usual, and I guess there's no reason not to, but, God, I don't know who's going to show up." She was almost in tears.

MJ disentangled herself from Peter and jumped off the table to put her arms around the taller woman. "Hang on, Chris, it's OK. It's going to be OK," she said, repeating it over and over as Chris sniffled into her shoulder. After a few moments, Chris straightened and wiped at the mascara running from her eyes.

"Oh, God, I must look terrible. Thank you, Mary Jane, you're both so sweet, not like that horrible Manny. I've got to fix my face – " She sniffed hard and bolted for the door.

"Manny? I wonder what he did," Peter said.

"Who knows. I want a bath, and bed, if I have to be back here early tomorrow." Peter joined her and they pushed their way out of the conference rooms and down the halls to her dressing room. MJ gathered up her purse and coat, and Peter tried to shove all his folders into the top of Susie's box.

"What's that?"

"Oh, that's what Susie Sokal was here for, she was giving me some more of Jeff's stuff. I haven't had a chance to look at it yet." The folders wouldn't fit.

"Why don't you leave it here? You've got class tomorrow, and you can come get it tomorrow afternoon when you shoot the poster backgrounds."

"Guess you're right." Peter left the box in the corner with the folders in a heap on top of it, and followed MJ out through the parking lot to the street gates. The bus stop was a few blocks down, and then there would be a long ride back to the Village where she lived, and then another bus ride to his apartment.

MJ must have been thinking along the same lines, because she sighed deeply and said, "Maybe we should splurge and get a taxi. It's definitely been a hard day."

"Yeah, I'm not looking forward to the bus either, but I was thinking of a more aerial solution…" Peter grinned at her. She stared at him blankly for a minute before catching on. Her face lit up.

"You don't mind? You sure?" she said. Peter was usually reluctant to take her out web-slinging, afraid that someone would spot them together.

"Like you said, it's been a hard day. We deserve a treat." MJ squealed and Peter grabbed her hand, drawing her into the shadows and into a space between buildings, too narrow to be called an alley.

Five minutes later they were sailing through the New York skyline, MJ's delighted laughter trailing them. It was as if they left the horror and confusion of the past few days on the ground. Peter never felt better, never felt more _whole_, than he did at times like this – Mary Jane cuddled closely against him as he crossed through a world he owned, a world belonging only to him and to the girl who was more to him than the world. Forgetting the desire to get home and sleep, he carried MJ through the dark and between the lights of Manhattan, to his favorite heights, showing off the most spectacular views. It was midnight before he came to a final, gentle landing on her balcony and set her on her feet. The exhilaration of the trip and MJ's sleepy, happy kiss goodnight stayed with him as he swung back out into the night.

It was time, he thought suddenly, time to stop reacting and start acting. It was good to be Peter Parker, good to work together with MJ, but he'd let it slow him down. People were dying at Apex Studios. He didn't know what Spider-Man could do about it but he would do something. Just being in costume now felt right. He needed to find out what was going on, and find out fast. Two people were dead, and maybe three, if Jeff Sokal really was part of this. There was no telling who might be next, not until he understood what was going on.

Apex Studios was the place to start. He needed to take a closer look at what had happened in the lobby before it was cleaned up. He needed to find out more about the accidents and the explosion. And he had to find out what the connection was between the Sokals and the murders.

Swinging over the gates into the Studio compound, Spider-Man saw that the parking lot and studios were silent, deserted. He landed on the main building, the tallest, and crept quietly to the roof door. Breaking the lock with only a slight twinge from his conscience, he slid inside.

* * *

_**A/N: **Thank you to every single person who has read and reviewed this. I really appreciate it. It's been way too long since I updated, and I apologize!_


	6. Chapter Five

_**Chapter Five**_

J. Jonah Jameson was in a rage. This was so far from unusual that Hoffman hadn't realized that anything new was wrong.

"Hoffman! Get in here!" Hoffman scuttled past the secretary like a mouse with its tail on fire and burst into speech as soon as he was inside Jameson's glass-walled office.

"Sir, we've got the Macy's ad for page three – "

"Shut up!" Hoffman's mouth closed abruptly. Jonah glared at his junior editor, Robbie Robertson, and snapped, "Why not?"

"Because you can't sue them, Jonah," Robbie explained in the most patient, reasonable tone he possessed. "You know the libel laws as well as I do." His round, kind face was a total contrast to Jameson's sharper features and flat haircut.

Betty Brant leaned through the two men, slapped a folder on Jameson's desk, and walked out.

"I don't care about the law, I want them sued! What are you doing here, Hoffman? Get out!"

"Sir, you wanted to know – "

"Can't you see I'm busy? If I want you I'll shout." Hoffman left without argument.

"Jonah, you can't sue the _New York Sunbeam_ for running this picture." Robbie waved the paper with its front-page photo of Jameson, cigar ash down his shirt and face twisted in anger. "You can't sue them for telling people that Mary Jane Watson left your son at the altar. And you can't sue them for the headline." The headline, in the largest, blackest print the _Sunbeam_ had been able to come up with, read '_Bugle_ Editor in Public Brawl with Actress Girlfriend.' The article inside, under a glamour shot of Mary Jane, went on: 'Actress Ditches _Bugle_-Boy, Father Swears Revenge.'

"She put them up to it," Jonah shouted, pounding his desk. "It was a set up! And she's going to regret this for the rest of her life!" A cup of pencils teetered at the edge of the desk, and Robbie wondered how many more thuds from Jonah's fist it would take for it to fall.

Hoffman came back in. "Sir, there's someone from Apex Studios here to see – "

"GET OUT!" Jonah bellowed. "If we can't sue them we'll bury them! And Mary Jane the Pain Watson! And Parker! And that fat director – HOFFMAN! Get back here!"

Hoffman stuck his head cautiously past the door, peering at Jameson through his thick glasses. "Yes?"

"Apex Studios? What are you waiting for? Get him in here!" Jameson lit his first cigar of the morning and waved it at Robbie. "You don't have a job to do? Get Brock and Ulrich on it."

"Ah – on what?" Robbie asked.

"The Pain, don't be an idiot. Get me some dirt on her, on the _Sunbeam_, whatever. I'd say get me dirt on Parker, but the biggest secret that kid's ever had was getting a B on some test in high school," Jameson grunted. Robbie rubbed a hand quickly across his mouth and didn't comment.

Hoffman sidled into the office with an even skinnier, mousier guy in tow. Jameson stared at him in disappointment. "So? What? What are you wasting my time about? Who are you anyway?"

"My name's Quentin Beck."

"No one cares." Jameson flipped through the folder Betty had left on his desk.

The kid gaped at him and sniffed noisily. "I work at Apex…there was an explosion there yesterday…"

"We ran the story. Probably a gas leak. Killed some no-name stuntman. Big deal."

"Yeah, but..." Jameson opened his mouth to kick the irritating whiner out. Beck went on, "Riebeau's covering it up. There were more people killed today." The words Jameson was about to say changed halfway through his vocal chords.

"What people. How. What do you know?"

"The Green Goblin – he's been attacking people, blowing them up, shooting – just now, a few minutes ago, he shot a bunch of people, a photographer and a couple of women. They don't have a clue over there, they aren't doing anything to stop it, just trying to keep it out of the papers. Riebeau's trying to hush it up," Beck said.

"Photographer? Don't tell me someone got Parker." Jonah chuckled, rubbing his hands together.

"Uh – yeah, that's his name," Beck said, eyes wide with surprise. "You, uh, know him?" Robbie made a soft, shocked sound. Jameson hadn't really been expecting it to be Parker. He looked blank for a moment.

"He works for me." Then Jameson waved Parker away in a cloud of cigar smoke. "The Green Goblin? What's he doing attacking a movie studio?"

Beck's face was pinched and spiteful, and he couldn't wait to explain the weird streak of bad luck the studio had been experiencing. Jameson listened, eyes narrowed and cigar burning, forgotten, in his hand as he heard how badly production on Mary Jane Watson's new movie was going. Eventually, Robbie broke in.

"You actually saw the shooting – you saw Peter Parker get shot? And you came here right after?" He frowned suspiciously. "How come the cops let you go?"

Beck shifted his gaze to the floor. "Well, maybe I wasn't right _there_ for the shooting, but I heard all about it. And I thought it was time people knew what was going on. Riebeau is trying to keep it quiet," he repeated, sniffing self-righteously.

"HOFFMAN!" Jameson bellowed. Hoffman popped back into the room and Jameson ordered, "Get on the line to Manny Alzamora, or anybody over there at Apex, confirm a shooting. Robbie, forget everything else, get Ulrich and Brock over there." Shaking his head, Robbie left the office. Jameson saw him pause by Betty's desk, and she shot Jameson a stunned look through the glass partition.

He looked back at Beck, who was grinning unpleasantly. Something wrong there, Jameson thought. Maybe he got fired, or didn't get his raise, whatever – Jameson didn't care. There was something to this story, he could smell it. And Mary Jane and that traitor Parker were in the middle of it. Then he remembered that Parker had been shot. Frowning, he bellowed at Beck, "So, what're you still here for, a medal? You want credit as a source?"

Beck's mouth dropped open and he stammered, "Oh, hey, no, that's – can you keep me out of it? I – I don't want to lose my job. I, um, I might be hired to play the Goblin, since the last guy died."

Jameson looked at the skinny twerp and remembered the Goblin, who had once broken into his office and held him up with one hand around his neck. He burst out laughing, and Beck stormed off red-faced with Jameson's laughter following him out.

* * *

Riebeau stomped through the darkened studio, red-faced with rage. He felt nastily like his life was spinning out of control. This morning Beck, that deleted-expletive of a special effects technician, had come to his office, dripping fake sympathy all over his floor and offering to take Tim's place as the Green Goblin stuntman. Riebeau had waved aside the idea and asked him to make a holographic Green Goblin instead. Great idea, film history in the making – the first movie _filming_ computer-generated characters interacting with live ones – the main characters, at that.

"_You'll be the best in the business – hell, son, you'll be surprised at the kind of recognition you'll get from this. Not to mention contracts." Riebeau had leaned back, smugly waiting for Beck's appreciation._

"_Mr. Riebeau, what I'd really like is to get in front of the camera, you know, get a shot at acting."_

"_What, the Goblin? Not much of an acting job, not with a mask on," Riebeau chuckled._

"_But I'm really good with martial arts, Mr. Riebeau, I could do a great job – like Jet Li!" Beck's face was shining with enthusiasm, but Riebeau didn't notice it. He had thrown his head back to laugh._

"_Right! Right, kid, I'm sure you're a black belt! No, no, you're a green belt! A Goblin belt!" Riebeau gasped for air. Beck's face darkened and he snarled soundlessly, but Riebeau didn't see it as he wiped his eyes. "Look, you've got your strengths, right? You're a wiz. You need to work with that, think about your career – not waste your time trying to be something you're not." He looked at the kid, who stared back at him without expression. "Seriously, Quentin, you're great at what you do. That's what I need you for."_

_Beck had nodded slowly and stood up. "I wish you would reconsider, Mr. Riebeau. All of this bad luck, the explosion – the Green Goblin doesn't like what's going on here. I keep thinking – I could play him right. Give his character some respect. Maybe that's what he's looking for."_

"_Don't give me that Goblin crap. There's nothing going on here but a run of bad luck and some hysterical actors blowing it out of proportion. I don't want to hear anyone talking about the Goblin, you hear me?"_

"_I hear you," Beck had answered, very softly._

Half an hour later, the lobby had exploded in gunfire. Riebeau shook his head. He didn't like what Beck had said about the Goblin being against the movie, and Beck wasn't the only one saying it. He'd heard the same line from Manny, and overheard the set designers and dressers whispering about it. He'd squashed the talk as much as he could, downplayed the explosion as an accident to the reporters, but there was no hope of that now.

The first wave of reporters had been cordoned off, waiting for the police to give them a non-committal summary of the shooting. But then that sharp-eyed blond reporter from the _Daily Bugle_ had arrived, and the questions he asked showed right up front that he knew too much about what had been going on. He could talk all he wanted about company solidarity, but he was sure that pimply little dresser – Peggy? Maggie? – had spilled her guts, along with all her superstitious Goblin bull.

Riebeau headed to his office and thumped heavily into his comfortable leather desk chair with a sigh. He hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. The dark was soothing, quiet. In a couple of hours, the studio would come back to life and the filming would go on. He was damned if he was going to be intimidated into ditching the project. _Thank God for Chris,_ he thought. She'd been there past midnight, making phone calls, bullying staff, making arrangements with the cops, sealing off what was left of the lobby, talking to reporters. The dead girl, the receptionist – he'd called her family personally, tried to soften the blow, like anything could. He'd felt like that was his job. But he'd let the real load fall on Chris, and she'd done wonders. Woman was a fantastic organizer, not to mention loyal. For the first time that day, things slowed down enough for Riebeau to remember what she'd told him about Manny.

"_Jon, I heard him – talking to Quentin. He said something about sabotaging the project for money," Chris had whispered to him the night before. He had glanced at the front seat of the taxi, where Mary Jane and her boyfriend were huddled together, and all he could think about was keeping this quiet._

"_Better keep it to yourself, for now," he'd said._

And she had. She hadn't talked to the police, and Jon hadn't either. A couple of overheard words weren't a good enough reason to implicate Manny in murder. Riebeau hadn't had much time to think it through, but if Manny was involved in this and Beck knew about it, Beck's sinister hints about the Goblin being upset with the movie had to be taken seriously. But _why_? Was the Goblin paying them to get him on the set, maybe to arrange some of the less lethal accidents? He just couldn't believe it of Manny. He'd known the man for years. He couldn't be helping the Green Goblin, not like this. Not with people dead. Rubbing his eyes, Riebeau thought he'd never been this tired.

"A-Type Personality, huh? I mean, most people have called it a day."

Jaw dropping, Riebeau stared at the figure outlined in his doorway – a black silhouette against the hall lights, hanging upside down, legs akimbo.

"Don't tell me I need to introduce myself to my very own publicity department," the tenor voice continued cheerfully. "You've got my name in letters five feet high over in Studio 4. Hey, do I get royalties for that?"

Riebeau leaned carefully back in his chair, laced his fingers across his belly, and said, "No. But if you want a job, you can be leading man in my latest film." His voice broke on the last word and he cleared his throat harshly.

Spider-Man laughed. "Whoa, super-stardom for the super-hero. But what I really want to do is direct."

The joke was an old one, but Riebeau wasn't sure how to react. This wise-cracking acrobat wasn't what he expected from Spider-Man, who was probably here to back up the Goblin's murderous rampage. Maybe Spider-Man was the brains and the Goblin had been softening Riebeau up so he would cave to Spider-Man's demands. "So…to what do I owe the honor of this visit? Don't tell me – you want me to stop filming."

"Nope. I gave up my career as a movie critic and moved on to crime busting. And I hear you've had some crime. Since you're working late anyway, maybe you could give me a hand." Spider-Man swung easily up his web line and flipped from the ceiling to the wall near Riebeau. The confused director edged his chair slowly away, eyes fixed on the close shape in the darkness. Then what Spider-Man had said sank in.

"A hand with what? You're partner's been turning my studio into a horror flick the last couple of days, and if you think I'm going to – "

"Back up, Spielberg." Spider-Man raised his hands in protest, resting his elbows on his knees. "First off? The Green Goblin isn't my partner, never was, never would be. Believe it or not, I'm one of the good guys."

Riebeau grunted cautiously to show he was listening.

"Second, he hasn't been anywhere near Apex Studios."

"Hah!" He shook a finger at Spider-Man. "He's been seen – hell, he shows up on the security videos. It's the Green Goblin, no question."

"It isn't." Spider-Man's voice was soft and convincing. "Because the Green Goblin died, years ago. Official law enforcement doesn't know, but I do. I was there."

He felt a chill down his back. "You killed him?"

"No!" Spider-Man shifted on the wall. "Look, long story but – basically, he killed himself. The guy was a few pumpkins short of a patch, if you know what I mean."

At that, he had to laugh. "And you're what, a model of stability?"

"Me? Heck yeah. I'm the poster child for normal." Blank white eyepieces caught the dim light from the hall, expressionless. "You mentioned the security tapes. Well, I was up close and personal with the Goblin a couple years back, and the guy on the tapes isn't him."

"How'd you get the cops to show you the tapes?" Riebeau was honestly curious, but Spider-Man just shrugged.

"I have my ways," he intoned. "So, I took a look at your costume department tonight. Ten nifty little Green Goblin costumes, all just like the ones on the tape. _Not _like the one the Goblin actually wore."

Riebeau rocked back in his chair and considered that. "Our costumes. You're saying…this guy was wearing one of our costumes?"

"To me, that just screams 'inside job.' Well, that and 'call the fashion police.'" Riebeau chuckled absently, still thinking furiously, until Spider-Man prompted him with a trace of impatience.

"So…any candidates? Any employees against the exploitation of super villains? A janitor with a really active fantasy life?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He opened it again and hesitated. Spider-Man's reputation was mixed, to say the least. Until now, Riebeau had accepted the official version, the version spread by the _Bugle_, the attitude taken by the Feds. But Spider-Man was popular – wasn't that why he'd decided to do a movie on him? A lot of people thought he was a hero. Maybe, maybe not. But sitting here having a conversation with a man perched on a wall, Riebeau realized that his gut instinct was to trust him. Bizarrely, there was something about Spider-Man that reminded him, a little, of his teenaged son who lived back in California with his third ex-wife, although that was probably just the smart mouth. But what if that casual goofiness was just his way of getting past his victim's guard?

"Look. There's a couple of – well, OK, possibilities. But I can't believe," Riebeau rubbed his face briskly, "I just can't believe it. Not murder. I'm not going to go naming names."

"Here's the upside of me not being the police," Spider-Man said. "Name all the names you want – it's not like I can hassle them, or arrest them, or question them, even. What I can do is keep an eye on them, maybe stop someone else from dying. Think of me as an unpaid security guard – not, you know, like someone who flunked out of cop school, but the good kind."

Babbling didn't prove you weren't insane, and this guy was wearing spandex. Gut feeling or not, Riebeau decided to err on the side of caution. "I can't tell you anything. I don't know you – what if I do, and he ends up being the next person dead?"

"Are you always this slow, or did I pick a bad night?" Spider-Man snapped. Riebeau blinked. "Five minutes ago, you were convinced I was working with this Goblin-wannabe, now you're trying to protect him from me. You know something, that's obvious. You don't want to tell the cops, fine. You don't want to tell me, fine. But you're going to feel responsible for the next person who dies, regardless."

"Get off my case!" Riebeau roared. "Hell, yes, you picked a bad night! I direct, for God's sake, I don't usually have people dropping dead who don't get up when I yell 'cut' and I don't know what to do, so back off!" He was breathing hard at the end of his tirade, shaking. He scowled and tried to hide his uncertainty, waiting with some embarrassment for Spider-Man's reaction. The paused stretched while the costumed man sat there motionlessly, head cocked to one side.

"OK. I get that, I really do," he said finally. "But this is what I do. I try to help. I don't know if there's anything I can say that will convince you to trust me. But I can't leave if I know there's something I can do to stop this."

Lacing his fingers back over his paunch, Riebeau wished he could think clearly. It had been such a long day. With a sigh, he decided that Spider-Man was right. He had to make a decision, and if he didn't speak up – to someone – about his suspicions and more blood was shed, he'd have to live with it for the rest of his life.

"Manny Alzamora is our scriptwriter," he said slowly. "Chris – the producer – overheard him talking to Quentin Beck, the special effects chief. He said something about sabotaging the production." Now that it was out, he felt better.

"Any idea why? I mean, what the motive is?"

"I have no idea. That's what gets me – Manny! He's harmless. Good natured. Kind of a geek."

"Never underestimate a geek," Spider-Man said. Riebeau was getting tired of his jokes.

"Yeah, well, Beck's worse. He's always snippy and bent out of shape over something, but he doesn't have the guts to kill anyone. I just don't know." He let his head fall back on the headrest.

"It's somewhere to start." Spider-Man slid along the wall and flipped around the doorframe, the move incredibly smooth and quick. If he could get that on film –

"If you change your mind about that job, you know where to find me!" he roared. But Spider-Man was already gone.


	7. Chapter Six

_**Chapter Six**_

Riebeau clapped his hands. "OK, everyone, let's focus for a minute here." The assembled cast and crew looked at him obediently. "We all know what's going on. Someone's trying to shut this production down, make it impossible for us to keep going. We're going to prove them wrong."

Peter, leaning against a wall in the back of the room, noticed the glare Riebeau shot Manny Alzamora, although Manny didn't. _Way to go, spook the guy,_ he thought. He was beginning to realize that theater people were the worst people in the world at acting normal. He'd told Mary Jane all about his investigations over lunch, and she had been much, much too cheerful to Manny when they'd bumped into him a few minutes after they'd returned. Manny had passed on Riebeau's announcement of a general meeting in the conference room at three and headed off without noticing anything, fortunately. Peter loved the way MJ blushed.

Sliding a glance of his own over at Beck, who was slouched in a chair nearby and chewing on his nails, Peter reviewed his own fruitless morning. He had searched Manny's office without finding anything, and made a start on Beck's – but it was such a mess, piled with molding pizza boxes and half-finished projects, that it would take months just to sort through it. What else could he do, except hang around, keep an eye on the suspects, and wait for their mystery attacker to make the next move? On the other hand, this meeting made him nervous. It might be necessary to motivate the frightened employees of Apex Studio to stay at work, but he hoped Riebeau wasn't also trying to play amateur detective. He snorted in amusement at his own thoughts. _Who am I to talk?_

In his rumbling voice, Riebeau continued, "I know there are a lot of rumors flying around. I know a lot of you are worried that the Green Goblin is out to get the show." Here he glared at Beck and Peter rolled his eyes.

Mary Jane's dresser, Peggy, poked Peter in the ribs and hissed in his ear, "I told you. I told MJ. This whole movie is cursed." He looked automatically at MJ, sitting up front with the other actors, legs elegantly crossed, an attentive expression on her face. Peggy poked him again to get his attention back. "The Goblin won't give up."

"But we aren't about to give up," Riebeau boomed. "We've got a great crew, we've got the best people in show business, and we're going to make a film we – " His words were drowned out by the hugely amplified maniacal chuckle that suddenly filled the conference room. The lights went out.

With a hiss, white smoke began pouring along the walls, lit by flickering green strobe lights in the ceiling. Several of the crew members murmured appreciatively at the effect, while others gasped or squealed. With a startling thunderclap, a burst of flame illuminated a shinning, green face with glowing yellow eyes floating in midair over the dais at the front of the room.

"It's him, it's the Goblin!" Peggy screamed suddenly.

Riebeau, standing on the dais to deliver his pep talk, held his ground only a few feet from the apparition. The dumbfounded actors in front, backing out of their folding chairs and huddling together, transferred their attention as an audience from their director to the lightshow.

"Fools!" The voice echoed through the large room at twice Riebeau's volume. Twin jets of flame spurted on either side of the giant Goblin mask as it spoke. "How dare you defy me!"

Peter slipped along the wall toward the exit prepared to dart into the hall and dump his street clothes but paused as, like the actors, he was caught up in the performance. Mary Jane was there at the front with one of the leading men – Peter had forgotten his name – clutching her arm and whimpering. She turned to look over her shoulder and spotted Peter. He gave her an incredulous "what the heck?" shrug and she raised an eyebrow in response before turning back to the stage. He felt behind him, through the smoke, for the door handle.

"I am the terror of this city! I am the Green Goblin!" Boom, flash. "You will do as I demand, or pay the consequences!"

Riebeau, for once his life a tiny silhouette dwarfed against the glowing mask, yelled back, "To hell with your consequences!"

Peggy moaned with fear, but character actor Grant Newman called out, "You tell him, Jon!" and waved his pocket flask. There were a few reluctant laughs, and a short pause, with the Goblin mask remaining speechless. Spider-Man, crawling unnoticed across the ceiling among the lights and rising smoke, chuckled and wondered how long it would be before the crew started waving lighters. Apparently, whoever was orchestrating this hadn't counted on people actually enjoying the show.

"Silence!" the mask bellowed at last. "A new script has been delivered to your office, Jon Riebeau," it went on. "You will follow it, or you will suffer a disaster such as you have never known! I will be honored!"

"Hey, isn't this supposed to be my movie?" The crowd turned and gasped as one to see a garish, red-and-blue masked man hanging upside down over their heads. "Who do you think you are, anyway, the Wizard of Oz?"

"Silence!" the Goblin bellowed again. The audience faced him, again in unison, reminding Spider-Man irresistibly of a tennis match. "Obey, or suffer the consequences!"

"Yeah, you said that already." Spider-Man cocked his head, conveying puzzlement although his face was hidden. "So – a new script? Come on, I didn't like the first one either, but that's no reason to blow your top."

"What?" That was Manny, slack jawed and wide eyed but with professional pride breaking through his shock. "I mean, hey, that's some of my best work – " Everyone ignored him.

"Silence!" bellowed the Goblin mask. "Do you need a demonstration of my powers?" There was a crack. Two sections of the ceiling shattered, long metal bars breaking through the sound proofing and scissoring in deadly arcs toward the packed crowd below.

_Thwip. Thwip._ The soft sounds were lost as people ducked and screamed, then waited in confusion when nothing happened. Mary Jane, crouched on the floor, looked up and saw two heavy pendulums, each tipped with a razor-sharp blade, arrested in midair by thin, glittering webs. Peggy, who had been in the direct path of the sweeping weapons, stood up slowly and stared at the motionless blade over her head. "Jeeze Louise," she whispered.

Suddenly, with a wild yell, Quentin Beck stood up and charged the stage. "Get back, you monster!" he shrieked, shaking his fist ludicrously at the green face.

There was an amplified chuckle, and the mask spoke once more. "Little man, you have courage. You will play my role in this movie, and play it well, or you will suffer my wrath." The jets of flame punctuated the Goblin's speech again, and then the mask faded out with one last thundering threat: "Follow my instructions, or there will be disaster…"

* * *

"I give it, oh, two stars out of five." 

Riebeau jumped and swatted at the coffee that spilled down his front. "Crap." Spider-Man pushed the window all the way open and twisted his way through, skipping easily across the walls to the spot he had occupied the night before. Riebeau scooted his chair away.

"Been reading the new script?"

"New script, my fat behind." Riebeau picked up a sheaf of pages from his desk and tossed them at the trash can. He missed and the pages fanned over the carpet. "It's not like Manny's stuff is high art, but this makes him look good."

Spider-Man, sitting with his feet flat against the wall, leaned his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, but I'm guessing it's put you, me, and the police all on the same page. Beck?"

"Beck." The director sighed and picked up a pencil, tapping it against his desk. "I think that kid's been watching too many movies."

"Kid. Try killer."

"But why?" Riebeau exploded, throwing the pencil after the script. "This can't all be over getting a part in a stupid movie."

"Why not?" Spider-Man set his chin in his hands. "Don't a lot of people dream of being the center of attention? Every actor wants that big break. He's just willing to go further than most to make it happen."

"Like you?"

Spider-Man stiffened and went still. "What do you mean?"

Riebeau waved a hand at the man sitting on his wall. "Isn't that what this is all about? Showing off, grabbing the headlines, making sure everyone notices your name? You're doing a great job of it, by the way."

"Oh, man. You've been paying way too much attention to the _Daily Bugle_. I don't do this for the attention."

That earned him a skeptical snort. "Sure. The red and blue jammies are great for fading into the background."

Spider-Man looked at his own hands, covered in red fabric and black webbing, and remembered the first time, the first costume, the blood. "This costume means something to me." Changing the subject, he asked, "Has Beck been arrested?"

"Nope. The cops took him in for questioning, but unless they find something to connect him with the murders they're going to have to let him go. That rotten performance of his this afternoon convinced me, but that's not proof." Riebeau scrunched in his chair to get comfortable, and turned to look Spider-Man in the eye for the first time. "They also advised me to play along until Beck trips up."

"I think they're right. Do you – "

He broke off as someone knocked on Riebeau's office door and swung it open. "Jon? Do you have a minute? Oh!"

"Come on in, Mary Jane." Riebeau stood up and gestured her to a chair. Spider-Man jumped off the wall, standing awkwardly as MJ shot an apologetic grimace in his direction.

"Oh, um, I – I didn't realize you had, well, company. I can come back later?"

"No problem, Mary Jane, we were about done." Riebeau got himself settled behind the desk again and raised his eyebrows in Spider-Man's direction. "Of course, you two know each other."

"What?" Peter prayed that hadn't sounded as panicked as it felt.

"From the Unity Fair?" Riebeau smiled in MJ's direction. "I didn't think even a guy who likes tights would forget rescuing this particular damsel."

"Oh, I'm sure – well, you know, it was a long time ago," MJ babbled, then stopped and smiled brightly.

"No, right, I remember." Spider-Man stopped too. Riebeau looked back and forth from the actress to the vigilante with an unpleasantly enlightened expression. "Well, I'm sure you two have things to discuss," he went on desperately. "I'll be – around." With an awkward little wave, he back-flipped to the open window and squeezed out.

Mary Jane and Riebeau watched him go, and then turned to look at each other. MJ smiled again, this time more naturally, and said casually, "I had a few questions about the shoot tomorrow."

* * *

"Damn, damn, damn, I am _so _sorry, Peter," Mary Jane said for about the fortieth time. 

"MJ, it's not your fault. I wasn't any better," Peter said. He rubbed at his face and threw himself down on the couch, pulling his knees to his chest. "I just never thought about us running across each other like that."

She leaned back in her chair, legs tucked under, and sighed. "Still, I'm an actress. And it wasn't like I didn't know you were around. I just – I don't know, lost it. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I shouldn't have ducked out and left you there." He stood up and started pacing again. "You said Riebeau didn't say anything afterward?"

"No. Didn't even seem curious. It might all be our imaginations, you know," she grinned up at him, "just our guilty consciences."

Peter grunted and came to a stop, forehead wrinkling. "You could be right." He stretched and sat down on the edge of the couch. "And now we know who's giving Apex it's round of bad luck."

"I guess." MJ didn't seem one hundred percent convinced. "It was kind of cheesy, how he jumped up on stage to attack a projection and got handed the part he wanted so badly. So what happens now?"

Scooting back, he shrugged. "The cops will be shadowing him, trying to catch him up. All the stuff he's been doing must take a lot of preparation, so if he tries something else they'll get him doing it. Or possibly they'll find some physical evidence to prove he was in the lobby that day."

"Then you won't be hanging out on Jon's wall anymore?" she said. "Does that keep people off balance?" The joke fell flat as he frowned again and picked at the cushions. After a couple of seconds, MJ said, "Peter? Hey, I was teasing."

"Sorry." He took a breath and let it go. "Sorry, it's just the second time today I've gotten accused of showing off."

"I wasn't accusing you – " she started, but he jumped up and interrupted her with a quick peck.

"I know. Sorry. It's just – look, forget it."

Fighting back her irritation – did Pete really have to jump all over her? – Mary Jane took a good look at her boyfriend and realized he was really bugged by this.

"Peter?" He looked at her. "_Why_ are you being too sensitive?" She kept her tone soft and sincere. He responded with an honest, blue-eyed ruefulness that she found charming.

"I don't know. I guess it's – I don't show off. I don't go out there shouting, 'Hey mom, look, no hands!' or anything. I get a lot of that from Jameson and it's a pain."

Mary Jane knew that was true, but something told her that wasn't all of it. "So? Usually you shrug it off. Jameson's not the only voice in the world. A lot of people think you're a hero."

"People think Spider-Man is a hero. Sometimes." Peter sat down – again – and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Do you, well, miss that people don't see that, when they see you, I mean the Peter Parker side of you?"

"No, I really don't. In fact, it's nice to be able to take off the mask and be normal. But I don't – I don't know how to explain it." He sounded frustrated, but MJ thought she was beginning to get it. There were a lot of little things she'd noticed since she'd found out about Peter being Spider-Man that were clicking into place now.

"And when you are being Spider-Man, sitting on the wall, or shooting webs, or, I don't know," MJ searched the ceiling for another example and came up with, "hanging upside down – that's not you showing off. That _is_ you being normal."

He looked at her. "Yeah."

"You don't ever do any of that when you don't have your suit on," she went on. "I've never seen you, you know, just around the house, do anything, um…"

"Freaky?"

"You're not a freak, Peter." She said it more sharply than she meant to, and winced. Peter laughed and nudged her foot reassuringly.

"Believe it or not, I'm not having some kind of crisis about whether or not I'm normal. I'm pretty sure I'm not," he said. MJ grinned back at him. "I just wish – sometimes it feels like I can never relax, not really."

"Well, around here, you can," she said. "If you want to sit on the wall, or think better upside down, or absent-mindedly scratch the back of your head with your toe, I promise not to freak out or _accuse_ you of showing off."

He hid his face in his hands. "I really didn't mean to say that."

"I know, Tiger." She tilted her head and waited. He raised his head and took a deep breath before going on.

"It's probably better if I don't make a habit of doing, um, spider-stuff when I'm not in costume. But, sometimes…" Smiling, he kicked off both of his tennis shoes and vaulted over the back of couch to the wall. She watched him get comfortable, surprised that he didn't look odd to her perched there in jeans and a t-shirt, socks resting against the paint. With a smile, she got up and stretched herself out on the couch, resting her head on the arm where she could look up at him.

For a minute, they stared solemnly at each other. Then Mary Jane cracked up, and Peter started to laugh before he joined her on the couch.

Much later, he whispered, "Thank you, Mary Jane."


	8. Chapter Seven

_**Chapter Seven**_

"You are just – amazing," Peggy said. She handed Beck a cup of coffee. "The way you stood up to the Goblin? I've never seen anything so brave in my life."

He sniffed and peered into the Styrofoam cup. "Hey, is this real cream? Because I can't stand that fake stuff."

"Oh yeah. I got it myself," she answered quickly.

Mary Jane gave up on getting her makeup girl's attention. She noticed that Peggy's hair was down and she was wearing more makeup than she usually did. Shaking her head, MJ adjusted her costume (a tailored grey suit) and rummaged in Peggy's bag for a mirror to check her face.

"Aren't you scared? The Goblin might," Peggy's voice dropped to a whisper, "change his mind." She leaned on the edge of Beck's chair.

He scowled. "Do you mind?" She jerked back. " – and that's another thing, I should have a trailer. I can't be expected to keep my focus with all this noise and distraction."

He waved grandly around to indicate the studio, which was filled with the crew setting up the lights. A row of folding chairs had been provided on one side for MJ, Beck, and a few of the other actors in the scene they were about to shoot. Everyone was in costume. Personally, MJ thought Beck looked ridiculous with his thin neck and querulous expression sticking out of the top of the Goblin's armor. _Then again, Peter looks a little goofy when he takes just his mask off, _she thought, and giggled. Beck shot her a suspicious look but didn't stop his list of complaints.

* * *

It was almost noon before the police found the Uzi, hidden under a pile of molding Chinese take-out cartons behind a cardboard screen in Beck's tiny, smelly apartment. 

"What an idiot," was the comment made by the officer who discovered it.

"Half of them are like that," grunted his partner. "They never really believe they'll get caught. In their heads, they're the heroes of their own little movie."

"Huh." The two moved out to their patrol car, bagging the gun and locking it in the trunk as evidence but knowing they had long hours of sorting out the crud in the apartment still ahead of them.

The had dispatch put them through to Apex Studios, where the detective in charge of the case was waiting with two units to make the arrest. "We've got the weapon."

"Get it over to ballistics, but we'll go ahead and make the arrest," came the reply. Detective Newman, a newly-promoted officer with a lot to prove, pulled out his cell phone. "Jefferson, you there? Report." He glanced eagerly around the conference room, which Riebeau had essentially abandoned to the police.

"He's still working in his office," Officer Jefferson said briskly.

"OK, let's try to keep this quiet, pull him out without a fuss. I'll be in position with the second unit in five. Wait to move in until I give the word."

* * *

"Makeup!" That was Riebeau, hidden by cameras and screens, but perfectly audible. "Is MJ ready?" 

"Yes!" Peggy yelled back without taking her eyes off Beck. MJ made sure she really was ready and then grabbed her script to glance over her new lines again.

Riebeau had worked overtime to set up a schedule that worked around what they'd planned for the original script and what was in the new Goblin-mandated version, all the while hoping that once Beck was under arrest, some of the footage would be salvageable for the final film. The effort hadn't put him in the best of moods and most of the crew was walking on eggshells, trying not to set him off.

This scene had MJ's character, the intrepid Agent Amberly, confronting the Green Goblin and Spider-Man in their underground lair, only to be captured. The original scene hadn't made much sense – _Why would an FBI agent go after dangerous criminals without backup?_ MJ wondered for the umpteenth time – but the revised script was worse. It featured the Goblin protecting Amberly from the evil intentions of the Spider-Man, and her reluctant admiration of his dashing, if criminal, ways as he made her his prisoner. _If I get through this without throwing up it'll be an Oscar-worthy performance, _she thought.

"Let's get going, folks," Riebeau finally called, and MJ and Beck took their places. The set was a huge, rocky, Styrofoam cavern in the middle of the stage, with a white web made of wire and glue stretched across the back. Beck, still overseeing the special effects, flipped a switch and typed a few commands into a PC tucked behind the cables and cameras surrounding the raised stage set, before jamming his mask over his head. Spider-Man appeared head-down and motionless on the web. The holographic version would spin webs, skitter over the walls, and perform impossible feats in general. Three other Spider-Men – stuntmen in costume – stood to one side, ready to take punches from the Green Goblin when the fight started, haul MJ around, and perform other stunts requiring physical contact with the real world.

Reluctantly, MJ took her place opposite Beck.

* * *

The door gave way with a slam and the two cops dove in, checking all the angles and depending on their partners to keep the suspect at the computer covered. Beck continued typing and frowning to himself with no reaction at all to the invasion. 

"Get down, down on the floor!" yelled one of the cops. Detective Newman, stepping in behind the uniformed officers, frowned as Beck displayed an unbelievable ability to concentrate, not even blinking at the repeated demand.

"Come on, you heard me, you are under arrest," said the officer closest to the suspect. He shoved the barrel of his gun forward to prod Beck's shoulder. As the gun went right through him, he jumped back with an exclamation of fear.

"What the – " breathed the detective. Visions of a quick, neat arrest of this headline-making criminal swirled away.

"I don't believe it," an officer said. "It's a trick, it's just a – like a projection or something."

"Damn," said his partner, laughing nervously. "I thought it was a ghost for a second."

Newman closed his eyes. "So, just how long has this guy been wandering around loose while we've been chasing ghosts?" The four officers with him shrugged and grimaced guiltily at each other.

Slamming his fist down on the computer, the detective cursed. "I guess I'll just have to ask someone at the studio where our suspect has got to," he snarled sarcastically, pulling out his cell phone.

* * *

It was worse than Mary Jane had feared. 

"I don't understand why we need to do another take," Beck whined. "That was fine." The holographic Spider-Man perched motionless over his head with a patience the director didn't share.

Riebeau stared at him, arms crossed. "Another take," he repeated. "Just do it again, and try to get your arm down on cue."

"It's one line!" Beck shouted. "Come on, what kind of director are you? I'm so bored with this. It's filmed, already."

They had been at it for most of the time since Riebeau first shouted 'Action!' Beck, as well as possibly being the worst actor on earth, seemed to be convinced that filming a movie consisted of standing up, saying your lines at top volume, and calling it good for the day. MJ, hot in her suit and hoping her makeup wasn't running, was just speculating on how long it would take before Riebeau snapped and went for Beck's throat, when the cops came through the door, a plainclothes detective accompanied by four uniformed officers.

"Quentin Beck?" the detective asked. There was a curiously hesitant note in his voice.

"About damned time," Riebeau said and shot one arm out to point one thick finger at the source of his bad mood. "Right there." The detective stepped forward.

"Quentin Beck, you are under arrest for the murder of Jennifer Gertz. Anything you say…"

"Who?" Beck wrenched his mask off and stared at the detective with what looked like honest puzzlement.

Detective Newman repeated, "Jennifer Gertz, late an employee of Apex Studios as a receptionist. Anything you say…"

"What? The Goblin did that. He was seen." Beck waved one green-armored arm and then dropped it hastily. "This is just…I'm not the Goblin. You're crazy." The camera and lights crew were gathering around, staring at Beck with considerable dislike and not a little satisfaction. Beck looked around and bewilderedly registered the level of hostility in the studio, paying no attention to the rest of his Miranda rights. At a head jerk from his superior, one of the uniformed cops stepped forward with a set of handcuffs.

"No!" The fact that he was about to be arrested sank in at last, and Beck dropped the green mask to the floor before flipping back and away from the officers, landing precariously on a Styrofoam rock.

Along with everyone else in the studio, MJ blinked. _Guess he wasn't just bragging about his martial arts skills,_ she thought. _That was pretty impressive._

The cops looked impressed as well, but their reaction to impressive was different – they all drew their weapons. "Everyone, get down!" Newman bellowed as he pulled a 9 mm from under his suit coat and raised it to eye level. The crowd scattered and dived for the floor or for cover. Riebeau remained standing but backed away from the set, grabbing a cameraman by the collar along the way.

Advancing slowly toward Beck, Newman continued, "Get down, on the ground, now!" His officers echoed his ready stance, fanning out on the edge of the fake cavern. Their guns were trained on Beck, who was balanced on the fake rocks in front of the fake web and the fake Spider-Man next to Mary Jane. She tried to inch carefully out of the line of fire. Her movement, cautious as it was, attracted Beck's attention.

Spinning quickly to the left, Beck grabbed MJ and rolled, pinning her arms and jerking her around in front of him as he fell. "Back off!" he screamed. Keeping one hand clamped over each of her elbows, he scrambled to get to his feet, pulling her roughly up with him.

"You know, this gets old," MJ grunted and raked her five-inch spiked heel along Beck's right leg. He howled, and his grip slackened. The next second he was knocked off his feet by a flying figure in red-and-blue spandex, who grabbed Mary Jane by the waist and swung her safely off of the stage.

"Thanks, tiger," MJ breathed, and gave his arm a quick squeeze.

"Anytime, babe," replied an entirely unfamiliar baritone, and an entirely unfamiliar hand patted her rump before her rescuer leaped back into the action. Face flaming, MJ watched with dropped jaw as three Spider-Men piled into Beck under the harsh lights. The cops charged around the perimeter of the fight, shouting for them to get out of the way. Detective Newman was holding a cell phone and apparently calling for more backup.

One web-patterned fist rose out of the fray and slammed down, but Beck blocked it easily with a forearm and kicked a second Spider-Man in the belly, sending him flying into line of spectators. The third Spider-Man crouched and swung a leg around to try to knock Beck off his feet, but Beck avoided it easily, kicking that attacker in the head, then spinning to punch the first one below the belt.

The Spider-Man who'd landed on the camera crew sat up, one hand pressed to his stomach, head lowered, and charged back toward Beck with a string of words coming from his mask that MJ wasn't certain Peter even knew. The one Beck had kicked in the head was lying ominously still on the boards of the set. Trading punches and kicks at a furious rate with one Spider-Man, Beck failed to notice the other charging at him until he was lifted off his feet and slammed into the fake web, which ripped and snarled around them both. The holographic Spider-Man hung in mid-air for a second and then blinked out of existence.

"Gotta get this, gotta get it," a tech was muttering next to MJ, typing rapidly on the keyboard of Beck's PC. She didn't have time to wonder what he meant. One of the uniformed cops, hollering for everyone to get clear, fired into the air. The report was shockingly loud. A sound tech at the back squealed and ripped off her headphones as the microphones recorded the shot. There were screams all around, and Mary Jane caught a glimpse of Peggy on the other side of the set, both hands over her mouth and eyes wide.

Beck surged out of the fight and rolled to his feet center stage. Two Spider-Men, both battered but still game, broke apart and crouched to either side of him. Cops strode forward, weapons trained on Beck, calling repeatedly for order.

"You won't take me," he snarled at them, and launched himself straight up as they opened fire. Flames spit from the back of his suit and he kept going up, through the hail of bullets.

"What the – " muttered the detective. Beck looked down, laughing, and looked back up again just in time to see Spider-Man swinging toward him, one foot looming large as it moved straight for his face.

"Arrrgghhhh!" Beck shouted, and lost his balance, spinning out of control and out of Spider-Man's trajectory. The propulsion pack sent him straight toward the floor, with a crowd of shouting, running people diving frantically away. A split-second before his unprotected head rammed into the floor, Beck twisted himself around and clutched at the controls built into his gauntlets. The flames sputtered, threw Beck a few feet back up into the air, choked out a few last bursts, and died, dropping Beck unceremoniously onto the floor. A Spider-Man popped up beside him and hit him across the jaw.

"Hold it right there!" shouted a cop in uniform, running toward him. At the same time, Spider-Man swung back through the air toward Beck, who scrambled desperately on all fours before rolling to one side. The web-slinger swung through vacant space where Beck had been a moment before, then turned clumsily and swung again. Beck stumbled, pushed himself up with one hand, and ran for his life with Spider-Man following, the crowd parting in front of them. Another Spider-Man, earthbound, chased after them both.

"Yes!" At the shout, MJ tore her eyes off of Beck and Spider-Man and turned to stare at the man standing next to her. He had a joystick in both hands and was slamming and twisting it as if he was in the middle of an exciting game, but he was looking directly at the ongoing chase. Beck dodged and dashed around camera tripods, crew, cops, and set pieces with Spider-Man in hot but ineffective pursuit. _I don't believe it. It's a hologram, he's got Beck's program going,_ MJ realized, and started laughing helplessly. "Ha!" yelled the tech, pressing a button to make Spider-Man jump. "Oh, damn – "

Beck had grabbed a light pole to throw at his pursuer, and the tech reacted too slowly to move Spider-Man out of the way. The pole shot through the hologram without a hitch and hit the far wall with a clatter. The look of shock on Beck's face was priceless – for about a second. Then he lunged forward, grabbing Peggy's hair in both hands and yanking her to him.

"That is _enough_!" he shouted, and the chaotic studio came to a halt. Beck, breathing hard and with a few pieces of wire-and-glue web hanging from his shoulder, put one hand around Peggy's throat and squeezed. She scratched and pulled uselessly at his glove and gauntlet. "Everyone just back off or I'll break her neck!"

The four police officers, now scattered around the room, still held their weapons but had no hope of getting a clear shot through the mess. People who had been knocked down silently got to their feet or sat where they were. One Spider-Man slid to a halt and backed away from Beck and Peggy, while another was kneeling by the one on the set floor, who still hadn't regained consciousness. MJ and the computer tech, in their sheltered corner, watched Detective Newman stand up. He wiped at his nose, looking surprised when his hand came away bloody, then pushed his way through to face Beck from a few feet away.

"OK, son, just calm – "

"I am not your son!" Beck shrieked, and Peggy gave a kind of strangled moan as his grip tightened. "Stay back! I am out of here, and no one is going to stop me!" Yanking Peggy along with him, he backed toward the area behind the stage where MJ, the tech, and the special effects materials were tucked away. Mary Jane and the tech exchanged one glance of total agreement and simultaneously climbed out of the way over the rocky wall into the open space of the stage. From a safe distance, they watched as Beck sidled back, whipping his head from side to side to make sure no one was sneaking up behind him, shouting and forcing choked screams from Peggy every time someone got too near.

As he got close to the wall, Beck's face split into an unpleasant grin and he turned to face his audience. "You are going to regret this, all of you." He jerked Peggy against him. "You're going to regret the day you ever tried to put me down and keep me from what's mine." With a low, theatrical chuckle, he delivered his exit line. "I'll be ba – ack!"

The last word turned into an exclamation as Beck noticed Spider-Man standing silently beside him and he backpedaled a step or two. Then his mouth turned down scornfully and he rolled his eyes. "Give me a break, I am not falling for that again – "

The iron grip around his throat interrupted him.

"Sorry I'm late for the party," Spider-Man said, and grabbed Beck's hand, twisting it and breaking his hold on Peggy. She fell forward, gasping. "But I'm really hurt that you started without me." He emphasized this by grabbing Beck's arms and flicking him upward, arms and legs flailing uselessly. Beck landed hard, knees buckling, and stumbled backward, but before he could do anything Spider-Man shot a web at his chest and pulled him irresistibly forward. Shoving at Beck's shoulder, Spider-Man spun him like a top, letting his other hand guide his web. Within seconds, Beck was securely cocooned.

"Um, package for the NYPD?" Spider-Man called, looking around the crowded, trashed studio for the cops. He spotted the detective, who wasn't exactly radiating gratitude for Spider-Man's intervention. Then Beck, writhing beneath the webbing, abruptly laughed out loud. Confused, Spider-Man swiveled his head back around to stare at the defeated villain.

Then there was a loud bang, and when the smoke cleared Spider-Man, Beck, and Peggy were nowhere to be seen. Mary Jane gasped and stepped forward, but there was no trace of the three people who had been there seconds before. The cops, stepping forward to make the arrest stopped in absolute frustration.

Jon Riebeau, on the other hand, looked at the man standing next to him who had a handheld camera resting on his shoulder. The cameraman checked his viewfinder once more, nodded, and gave Riebeau a thumbs up.

"Cut," said the director with immense satisfaction.


End file.
